


If I Come Knocking

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Curses, F/M, Romance, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Secret Santa, True Love, just 'normal' people trying to explain magical things, only real warning:, references of anxiety disorders that aren't actually anxiety disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4418702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumpelstiltskin gave Regina the Dark Curse his only condition was that he be well off in this new world, and he is. Mr. Gold is Storybrooke’s monster: owning more than half the town, terrorizing its residents… and he manages it all without ever leaving his pawnshop. Everyone steers clear of the cruel, “agoraphobic” Mr. Gold, unaware that a spell literally keeps him from crossing the threshold. Gold resigns himself to spending the next twenty-eight years bound by Regina’s magic, that is, until he spots a woman he thought long dead across the street. Suddenly, Gold has just a little bit of hope and he finds himself wondering if True Love’s Kiss might be able to break this curse too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas in July gift for the lovely Catherine/belleyonce! *hugs*

Mr. Gold leaned casually inside the doorframe of his pawnshop, cane hooked into the crook of one arm. He didn’t move, but his smile grew feral as he watched the approach of one Ruby Lucas, heels clicking tentatively on the sidewalk. She stopped just out of his reach.

 

“Good morning, dearie.” Gold eyed today’s ensemble: black lace tank, flimsy red scarf, red mini skirt that squeaked when she leaned into her red, red heels. The wolf girl sure did like dressing herself in blood.

 

“You have something for me, don’t you?”

 

Wordlessly she produced a diner bag and a disposable cup of coffee, still steaming. Ruby held them out and, when he wagged a finger at her, reluctantly moved forward. Mr. Gold waited until her arm actually passed the barrier between street and pawnshop before snatching it all from her hands. He peered into the bag—one bagel with cream cheese and strips of lox. Good.

 

“Thank you, dearie. I expect you back at 5:00 sharp to pick up my trash. Do give granny my best.”

 

Ruby glared ferociously and Gold liked to imagine that a little bit of yellow seeped into her irises. With a growl she spun on her heels, stalking back the way she’d come. Gold watched her leather clad ass indifferently.

 

“Good day to you too,” he called.  

 

It really was an excellent deal. Widow Lucas provided him with breakfast every morning, did his grocery shopping every Sunday, and made trips to Storybrooke’s smaller markets for specialty items twice each month. In exchange, she was given a lowered rent on her precious diner and the promise that when she had the funds she could buy the building from him, no strings attached. The only one who didn’t seem to appreciate their deal was his little errand wolf. The younger Ms. Lucas always kept her distance, nose wrinkling like she smelled something dangerous.

 

Gold smiled. She probably did.

 

He didn’t bother sitting down, just pulled his breakfast out and set the coffee on the

table under the window. Gold liked to watch Storybrooke come alive as he ate, its residents coming and going with a monotony that was more than a little disturbing. For a town that was populated with some of the most meddlesome and foolhardy people he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting, they sure didn’t do much.

 

After the wolf girl, Snow drove by on her way to Storybrooke Elementary. Exactly a minute after that, one of the dwarfs—Sneezy, that much was obvious—headed in the opposite direction, towards the convenience story. Geppetto would stroll by once Sneezy reached the stop sign, always whistling and always carrying a selection of tools. By the time Gold had downed half his coffee the cricket was passing his shop, that spotted mutt of his pulling him along. Jiminy always ran a little faster when he spotted Gold, even though he’d never so much as taken a threatening step near him.

 

Gold hadn’t left the shop at all. Not once in three years.

 

He growled, resisting the urge to turn around and smash a few unfortunate antiques. It might be worth it, just to call the wolf girl back and make her clean it all up. But no, his routine wasn’t through just yet.

 

Gold popped the rest of the bagel into his mouth, catching a glimpse of the Blue Fairy down a ways. She was the last of them. It should be any second now. Doctor Frankenstein had already come and gone, his familiar early morning bottle glinting through the windshield. There wasn’t anyone else who passed this way and the oriental clock to his left had already begun to chime: 8:00 am. Gold frowned. This wasn’t right. Where the hell was—?

 

_There._

He eagerly leaned forward, right on the balls of his feet. With a hand planted on either side of the door Gold balanced himself, as far out as possible without actually crossing the line. He could see her, just across the street, rolling her own cup of coffee between her hands.

  

He smiled, joy and disbelief filling him.

 

Leave it to Belle to be nearly late in a town that never changed.

 

She was definitely in a hurry. Tossing her cup at the nearest trashcan—terrible aim, dearie—she frantically stuck pins in her hair, trying to tame it as she ran. Belle was wearing her green dress today, the one with the gold trim. In his weaker moments, Gold liked to pretend that it was woven with some of _his_ gold, that a little of his spinning had found its way over from their world. As he watched, Belle smoothed the rest of her curls over her shoulder and pulled a book from the satchel at her side. She had her nose halfway down the page as she rounded the corner.

 

Then she was gone. Off to the library.

 

Gold sighed, leaning back and rubbing at his leg. That, at least, would truly never change. Belle was Storybrooke’s perfect little librarian, as enamored with her books now as she had been when she’d browsed his own collection, back in the Dark Castle. Now she spent her days catering to Snow’s brats and the nuns’ book club, but come 6:15 she’d be right there again, walking parallel to his shop on her way home to her father.

 

Gold grimaced. Even thinking the name “Maurice” left a bad taste in his mouth. A pity, given how good Widow Lucas’s coffee was this morning. He took another long drink, gaze focused to the south where he knew that three blocks down there was a tiny flower shop.

 

Sir Maurice. Or rather, Moe French as he was called here, the simple father of Storybrooke’s lovely Belle. Gold hissed against the Styrofoam, his lips curling in disgust. It didn’t matter that Regina had lied about Belle’s passing, or that there had never been any clerics flaying her perfect skin; he still despised that pathetic lord turned florist. Any father who drove his business into the ground and expected his daughter to pick up the pieces was no true father at all. Really, he should have seen it back in Avonlea. How _dare_ he? What fool of a man let his greatest treasure walk away in the hands of a monster? At first Gold had thought Maurice gave in out of respect for his daughter’s decision, but now he knew it was only fear; the crippling need to be free of the ogres. Gold grinned humorlessly. Oh yes, he recognized cowardice when he saw it, but he could never condone it. The man should have taken up a sword against him that day, deal or no deal.

 

Yet if he had, Gold knew would have never had Belle.

 

With another grimace he turned back inside. There was nothing else out there worth looking at.

Passing through the curtain that separated the shop from the back, Gold settled at the table dominating the room. It was cluttered beyond all hope of organization from a hundred knick-knacks; some that needed cleaning and others that needed repair. The only other furniture in the room was a simple bed and a door that lead to a cupboard-sized bathroom, housing only a toilet and a shower he barely fit into. Looking around, Gold gave an exaggerated flourish of welcome to an invisible audience, with a muttered, “Welcome home!” Really, this was as far from a ‘home’ as anything could get, merely a space with the bare necessities that Regina had been oh so kind to provide him with. The loneliness aside, Gold would take his Dark Castle over this hovel any day. At least a castle had more than two rooms.

 

Viciously he plucked up a Geneva drive, one of the many gears belonging to a delicate little clock he was trying to get up and running. Gold twirled it between his fingers, wondering idly how it would look cutting into the throat of one Regina Mills. He did sometimes ponder, given the choice of only having one, who he would choose to kill: Regina or Maurice. Probably Regina. After all, though bearing his own sins, Maurice had never dared to outsmart him.

 

“You always were an apt pupil, weren’t you, dearie?” he muttered to the cog. “Always going above and beyond. I’ll admit it! I should have been far more specific in our dealings. How very remiss of me.”

 

It was true. He’d underestimated how much control Regina was able to maintain while casting the curse. After all, her frantic expedition down to his cage hadn’t exactly inspired confidence. How was he to know that she’d succeed in pulling a few strings? The condition of a wealthy existence and an added “please” getting him whatever he wanted from her had seemed like more than enough. Besides, he’d thought, what could she possibly do to him in a land without magic?

 

Except there _was_ magic. Just a little.

 

With a curse Gold threw the cog down, too angry for the work. Feeling drawn to a bit of self-mockery he limped back into the shop, stopping at the front door. Slowly, with an almost scientific curiosity, he extended his hand until it just passed the threshold—

 

—and hissed at the bite of magic; stumbling back. His bad leg took more weight than it was prepared for and nearly buckled, his breakfast table the only thing saving him from a nasty fall. As if his situation weren’t bad enough, this godforsaken world had decided to cripple him again too.

 

Gold absently shook his injured hand, watching as the purple smoke evaporated. It looked at bit like he’d been burned—his skin reddened around the nails and knuckles—but he knew, if he showed it to anyone else, that they would see nothing. 

 

Oh yes, Regina had found magic. Maybe she’d brought it over from their world, maybe she’d discovered a bit hidden here. It didn’t _matter._ The would-be queen had just enough power for one spell and she’d used it on him, trapping him in this pitiful excuse of a shop. Out from one cage and into another. She really was smarter than she looked.

 

Gold had nearly killed himself that first day, before he knew that magic held him here. He’d appeared with the rest of Storybrooke in an instant, as he now knew, but at the time it had merely felt like another typical day in an otherwise mundane life, one that he couldn’t be bothered to examine too closely. Gold had been polishing some of his merchandise when he just happened to look up and out the window. It being 8:00am, he saw her.

Belle. Hurrying to work just like she had this morning. Of course, Gold hadn’t understood his fascination with her then. He knew from the curses’ memories that she was Belle French, daughter of the florist and town librarian, but he didn’t know _her._ Not then anyway. Nevertheless, she was beautiful and Mr. Gold of Storybrooke was a collector of beautiful things. All at once he wanted to meet her, some buried part of him recognizing _Belle._ Gold had stood, deciding that today would be an excellent day to visit the library. He’d put down his tools, grabbed the closed sign, hurried through the door—

 

—and was promptly thrown back so violently that he slammed into the far counter, knocking himself out.

 

When he’d awoken, Gold not only had a splitting headache and a horribly bruised back, but also two sets of memories to sort through. It wasn’t entirely surprising that the curse’s hold on him had broken. After all, his interest in Belle told him it had been tenuous to begin with—no doubt a result of his own magic—and it was a bit hard to remain a simple pawnbroker who didn’t believe in such things when there was a goddamn magical barrier surrounding your shop. It hadn’t taken him long to piece it all together: who he was, who he was supposed to _think_ he was, the curse, his little ‘apartment’ in the back, the fact that anyone could come in but he couldn’t get out…

 

The fact that Belle was alive, _right there_ and he couldn’t get to her.

 

After that, Gold had promptly destroyed half his wares.

 

“This is indeed hell,” he muttered, recalling the satisfying feeling of smashing object after object with his cane. “The final twist of the knife, eh? I’m so sorry, love.”

 

He’d done everything he could to get out of course, to get back to her, but Gold had none of his own magic available to him. It quickly became clear that he couldn’t knock anyone else out of their cursed states (he’d tried, doing everything he could to enrage the wolf girl each full moon) and it was equally impossible to convince them that magic existed. After that first day, Gold had made a quick call to Sheriff Graham, “requesting” access to the security camera across the street. Instead of being thrown like a rag doll from Regina’s spell, the footage showed him approaching the door… and then edging away, running like a skittish colt with his whole frame trembling.

 

Apparently, Mr. Gold of Storybrooke had always been terribly agoraphobic.

 

“You do have a sense of humor, don’t you, dearie?” Gold threw his pocket change at the doorway, sneering when it passed through harmlessly. “No happy endings you said and my my, you kept that promise! I can see but can’t touch, is that it? And of course, Belle hasn’t a clue. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t care! You just thought this through wonderfully, Regina. Oh well _done._ ”

 

By the time he’d well and truly resigned himself to being stuck, Gold had watched Belle pass his shop twice a day for three months, never deviating in her routine. It had occurred to him that he could just shout out to her… but nothing good could come from that. Here, they weren’t even acquaintances. Here, Gold was the town pariah, the strange recluse who made paupers of them all and who hadn’t _once_ left his shop. So what did young, beautiful women do when they heard monsters shouting at them from their lair?

 

“They run,” Gold whispered. His last coin flew through the barrier and landed with a clack in the street.

 

He wouldn’t be able to take it. He’d break. What if he called to her and she panicked, looking for safety in the arms of another man? Worse yet, what if she decided to take another route to work? No. Gold knew he couldn’t risk the little bit of Belle he still had. So for now he’d watch and wait, biding his time until little Emma showed up to save them all.

 

“Three years down,” he muttered, easing onto the table. “Only twenty-five more to go.”

 

Gold knew he wouldn’t be getting any work done today, not when his thoughts had already taken such a dark turn. He’d practice waiting instead—wait for 6:15 to roll around, when Belle would rush by and he’d get another wonderful, fleeting glimpse.  

 

Seated as comfortably as possible given his leg, Gold settled in. What he couldn’t know was that for the first time in three years Belle wouldn’t be passing his shop at 6:15. Stuck inside as he was, Gold hadn’t a clue that on this particular day, Belle never even made it to the library.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle tore down the street. She never lifted her gaze from the book in her hands and the rest of the world was tasked with getting out of her way. There was almost a nasty collision with a parking meter, but at the last second Archie, looking up from Pongo at just the right moment, gave a frightened cry in warning. Belle swerved, continuing to read as she waved at him a brief, ‘thank you.’ She stalked fast enough to overtake the psychiatrist and his dog— past the Laundromat and then past the library. Ten minutes after Belle was supposed to be unlocking the doors, she entered Granny’s diner instead. The little bell above the door jingled angrily, echoing her mood.

 

Silence descended. Every customer turned to stare at the girl who was _always_ in the library by 8:10 and who wasn’t there now. Belle looked up from her book just long enough to glare at them all.

 

“Library’s closed,” she snapped and then Belle immediately shook her head. “Or it’s… opening late. Something. Oh I don’t know, just go back to your breakfasts.”

 

Belle threw herself onto a stool at the counter, not bothering to look and see if anyone obeyed her. The renewed clink of silverware was a hint though.

 

Ruby was immediately at her side, one hand carrying a pot of coffee while the other fluttered in shock. Before she could speak Granny was also there, cradling her own beverage.

 

“Emergency hot chocolate?” she asked, extending the mug. It was large enough for a bowl of soup, covered with whip cream, caramel, mini chocolate chips, and Belle didn’t care how she’d managed to make that all so fast, just— “ _Yes._ ”

 

Granny nodded, satisfied when Belle buried her face in the whip cream. “You’ve got ten minutes,” she said to Ruby and waved off the “Thank you, Granny” that was mumbled around a mouthful of caramel. Belle sunk further into her mug as Granny trotted away.

 

“Belle.” Ruby was determined to prevent her from drowning in chocolate. Pity that. “Belle! What the hell happened?”

 

Raising her head, Belle’s gaze was clouded by steam and she wasn’t sure how much was from her drink and how much was pouring out of her ears. “What happened?” she hissed, making Ruby draw back. “What happened is that Dad wants me to marry—marry Gaston!”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Ruby lost her grip on the coffee pot. With insanely good reflexes she made to catch it, but she missed the handle and touched the hot glass instead. With a yelp Ruby pulled back and the pot shattered at her feet.

 

“Ruby!”

 

Well, they had the entire diner’s attention again.

 

Granny looked ready to maim them but Ruby shook her head, hauling Belle out of her seat. The fingers on her arm pulsed a painful red, matching her skirt.

 

“Oh no, Ruby. Are you okay?”

 

Ruby shot her a very ‘wtf’ look. “Jesus, Belle. Seriously. _I’m_ fine.” She got right up against her grandmother, stalling the growls. “Granny,” Ruby whispered, voice dipped low and serious. “Emergency hot chocolate isn’t going to cut it.” She eyed the back room.

 

It took all of a second for Granny’s expression to morph from anger to concern. Belle tried not to lean too much against Ruby under her grandmother’s gaze, but she could feel herself trembling.

 

“Go,” Granny snapped, not unkindly. “I’ve got you covered. You take care of her, girl. Whatever she needs.” Ruby nodded and as they passed Granny reached out, giving Belle a brief pat on the cheek. She concentrated on that sensation rather than the eyes on her back as they fled.

 

Safely tucked in the back room, Belle collapsed, curling onto a crate of tomato sauce. Ruby was right beside her.

 

“Are you okay?” She fretted, pulling at the fringe of her scarf. “What the hell am I saying, of course you’re not okay. Just, go ahead and cry if you need to, don’t even worry about it. I’m a really excellent hugger.”

 

“Cry?” Belle let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I don’t need to cry, Ruby. I’m pissed!”

 

“Well you do have a tendency to sob when you’re angry…”

 

That earned a small but admittedly very wet laugh. Belle tucked her head into her hands. Reaching up Ruby began stroking her hair, her long nails scratching against Belle’s scalp.

 

“But no seriously,” she murmured. “No funny business? Your father really wants you marrying Gaston?”

 

The mop of hair nodded. For a long moment the two girls just sat in a silence together, thinking.

 

“Well then fuck him!” Belle yelped as the fingers suddenly tightened, pulling at her curls. “What the ever loving fuck, Belle? This isn’t one of Granny’s Victorian novels! We don’t _do_ arranged marriages and to _Gaston_?” Ruby’s lips twisted into a snarl, exposing her gums and the tips of her teeth. “Great choice there, Mr. French. Way to pick ‘em. Tall, dark, and _stupid_ with a possessive streak a mile wide and—”

 

“A whole lot of wealth,” Belle interrupted, her own scowl forming.

 

Ruby startled and then her eyes slowly went wide, the pupils expanding. “… No.” She whispered.

 

“Uh huh. Dad thinks he can save the shop.”

 

With a cry Ruby pounced on Belle, landing an inch from her face and drawing a ‘eep’ from her friend. Her nail came up like a small rapier, pointing directly at Belle’s nose.

 

“Should I kill him?” she growled. “Them? Both? I can do both, Belle. Just say the word.”

 

“No.” Carefully, Belle lowered her friend’s weapon. They were both shaking now: anger overlapping fear. “Thanks, Ruby, but that’s not necessary. I’ve decided. I won’t be marrying Gaston.”

 

“Ha!” Ruby grinned.

 

“I’m not letting my father do this. How _dare_ he? I decide my own fate.”

 

“Hell yeah, girl!”

 

“I’m moving out!”

 

“Yeah!—wait what?”

 

Ruby drew back and Belle took advantage of the space, diving for her bag. She pulled out her book again and flipped effortlessly to the page she’d been pursuing. Thumb holding her place, she turned it to show Ruby.

 

“Storybrooke’s law book,” Belle said triumphantly. She read from memory, letting Ruby skim the text herself. “‘Any Storybrooke employee of a publically owned establishment has the right to utilize said establishment’s amenities, which include, but are not limited to, _housing_ —’” Belle shook the book. “I found it stuffed on a top shelf weeks ago, buried under a mess of old photographs. I don’t think anyone even remembers we’ve got it.”

 

“And with good reason, Belle.” Ruby rubbed two fingers together, scowling at the dust. “You care about this musty thing because…?”

 

“Because the library is one of the few buildings in Storybrooke that’s not privately owned. It’s public. I work there. Which means that I have a right to the apartment above it.” Belle nodded. Ruby’s mouth was falling into a satisfying little ‘o.’ “Dad’s backed me into a corner, Ruby. I know exactly what he’s going to say: ‘Marry Gaston or you’re not living under my roof!’ Well, then I need a roof of my own, but I don’t have the money for a new apartment. Hell, I don’t even think there are any apartments left in Storybrooke, not unless I moved in with someone and no—” Belle took Ruby’s hand, giving her a small smile. “I’m not doing that to you and Granny. This is _perfect_.”

 

Ruby looked like a very red fish, her jaw bobbing. “Belle.” She said. “I don’t think anything about this situation can be described as ‘perfect.’”

 

“Don’t I know it, but Ruby, _Ruby_ —” The trembling that had been coursing through Belle since breakfast—since her dad had announced his intentions for her—rushed up to her eyes and spilled over as tears. Belle really didn’t want to cry, she _hated_ crying, but the sheer unbridled rage she felt needed an outlet, so it was cry or she’d start ripping through poor Granny’s merchandise. As it was, Belle still held Ruby’s hand and her nails were digging awful grooves between the tendons. Looking down she saw that it was the hand burned by the coffee pot and the last thing she wanted was to hurt Ruby, but she couldn’t let go she just couldn’t, she couldn’t—

 

“C’mere, c’mere. Don’t be stupid, puppy. C’mere.” That got her and despite her protests Ruby tucked Belle securely under her chin. The last time she’d heard Ruby using the endearment “puppy,” Ashley had been screaming on the diner floor with a three inch piece of ceramic embedded in her arm, courtesy of a nasty fall. That’s basically how Belle felt right then: reduced to an infantile state where all she could do was bleed out and scream a bit. Ruby’s scarf made for excellent soundproofing, so Belle just buried herself there and wept.

 

When she emerged, Belle felt lips against her head and they were muttering nonsense.

 

“—perfect hair, loves Austen, wears tights, orders hamburgers with extra pickles—”

 

“What are you doing?” Belle mumbled, her voice thick.

 

“Listing all the ways you’re awesome.”

 

“Oh.” Her hand felt like lead, but Belle forced it up to scrub at the drool she’d left on Ruby’s neck. “Thanks.”

 

“Not a problem, hun.”

 

With one last, stolen snuggle, Belle eased herself back. She tried to smile, failed, tried to shrug, and ended up with a full body twitch. Belle settled on rubbing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Ruby’s concern.

 

“You know, the worst thing is I actually kinda get it.” Belle said. “Game of Thorns is down the drain and I don’t make nearly enough cataloguing books. I’m already paying the bills as it is. Gaston… he’s an easy fix and Dad’s old fashioned that way.”

 

Ruby scowled, shaking her head vigorously. “Look. I get financial difficulties, Belle. Really. You know Granny wants to give me the diner someday and you can’t very well give something that you don’t own, but this is _sick._ He’s selling you out! Fucking hell, what do the Gastons even _do_?”

 

“His parents are pretty severe from what I’ve heard,” Belle sighed. “Gaston stands to inherit a fortune. His father is reallyinto hunting—mostly bucks I think—but his mom is some big name in decorating. She uses the antlers her husband collects in her décor and its pretty much become her staple—a ‘natural look for the modern home.’” Belle shivered. “I always thought her designs were creepy.”

 

“And they got loaded off of this?”

 

“Apparently.” Except that was too close to a lie. “No. They’re definitely loaded. Gaston has more than enough to save the shop. He could support Dad when he gets older, support me—”

 

“Stop.” Ruby bumped herself further onto the crate—roughly. “Stop defending him. Even if you did love Gaston—which eww, _no_ —a father doesn’t trade his daughter’s happiness for a stuffed bank account. I don’t even _have_ a dad and I get that. He’s been mooching off of you for years, Belle. It’s about damn time you moved out. Find yourself some distance.” Ruby’s eyes narrowed, honing in on the tear tracks still on her cheeks. Gently she brushed at the lines. “You’re sure?” she asked.

 

“About moving? Absolutely.”

 

“No, about moving into the library. You know Granny and I _will_ take you, right? Hell, I bet she’d be delighted. She’d bitch about it constantly, but delighted.”

 

Belle smiled, as much as she was able. “I know, and thanks, but I really think I need my own space. Besides, it’ll take a while for Dad to realize that I’m serious about not marrying Gaston, but when he does he’ll be pounding at my door ‘till kingdom come. I can’t do that to you both.”

 

“Granny has a crossbow. Some relic of her grandfather’s.”

 

“ _No_ , Ruby.”

 

“Fiiine.” Ruby stretched, using the movement as an excuse to pull Belle into another one-armed hug. “You realize this apartment is gonna be tiny, right? _Miniscule_. A girl needs her own space, but she needs _some_ space too. I’ve seen your shoe collection.”

 

“I’m more concerned about my books,” Belle groused. “You think Dad will let me take the living room bookshelf?” Wincing, she looked down at her hands.

 

“What I think is that Marco owes me for all that free pie and if your asshole of a father doesn’t give you that shelf I’ll have him build you a new one.” With a grunt Ruby shot to her feet, hauling Belle up along side her. “Don’t you worry, girl, my decorating is as spot on as my fashion. We’ll get that place spruced up. It’ll be Gaston-proof, antler-free, and stuffed with so many books the town will be coming upstairs to browse. Okay? In fact, we’ll start now.”

 

With a wink Ruby dove into her bra, coming out with a wad of bills. She dropped it all into Belle’s hand.

 

“Tip money,” she explained. “Haven’t a clue how much is there, but that’s about a week’s worth and Dr. Whale was generous last Tuesday. I think it was my midriff top, the creep.”

 

“Ruby! I can’t just take—”

 

“Yeah you can. You need some serious TLC, Belle, and that comes in three forms: best buds,” Ruby gestured between them, “chocolate, and shopping. We’ve covered methods one and two, so now it’s time to go out and indulge yourself a bit. Buy books, you’re good at that, and find yourself a cupcake. More chocolate can’t hurt.” 

 

“I…” Belle looked down at the cash, then back up at Ruby’s glare. “Okay.” She whispered. “Just… thanks.” Belle let out a shaky laugh. “I feel like I’m saying that a lot today.”

 

“Whatever gets you through.” Expression sobering, Ruby kept hold of her hands, giving them a squeeze. “Seriously now, you sure you’re okay? It’s just… wow, Belle.”

 

“Tell me about it.” Slowly, Bell untangled herself from Ruby, knowing that if she stayed any longer she’d probably just fold herself there for the rest of eternity. She held up the money, tucking it into her bag. “Thanks. _Again_. Last time, I swear.”

 

 “Uh huh. I’ll believe that when I see it. Hear it. Whatever.”

 

The two girls snuck out of the back room, Belle quickly trying to tidy up. Re-entering the diner, Granny’s eyes caught hers and Belle gave a tiny smile, gratefully brushing Ruby’s arm. Granny nodded and went back to the register. No doubt Ruby would explain everything to her tonight and Belle was glad that she wouldn’t be there for the fallout. Granny had always been protective of her and lately she’d been getting more vocal about her dad, clearly disapproving about how he managed his finances. When she heard about his latest scheme… Belle shivered, wondering if she really did own a crossbow.

 

“You heard right the first time, people.” Ruby announced on her behalf. The customers had taken to staring at them again anyway. “Library’s closed today! Spread the word. Anyone making a fuss gets charged triple late fees.”

 

Belle choked. “That’s not—”

 

“You hush.” With a firm hand Ruby steered Belle to the door, glaring at anyone who dared to whisper. She leaned in close for a last, quick hug.

 

“Go,” she said. “Mental health day. And come by if you don’t want to head home. We can spare the couch for one night.”

 

“I might. Th—”

 

“Don’t you say ‘thanks.’”

 

“Right.” Belle giggled, the happiest sound she’d made all morning. “Guess I’ll just say, ‘see you’ then.”

 

“Good.” Ruby turned to head back inside, but at the last second she looked back, her face contorted with exaggerated revulsion. She let out a full body shudder.

 

“ _Gaston._ The only thing worse would have been if your dad wanted you to marry Mr. Gold!”

 

With a wave Belle set off, Ruby’s disgusted laugh echoing behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

Cupcakes were all well and good, and Belle knew that she could easily spend Ruby’s entire gift on books, but her last comment had gotten Belle thinking. She had passed Mr. Gold’s pawnshop every morning and evening for… well, what felt like forever. Even from across the street she’d been able to see that it was stuffed with extraordinary pieces, things that sparkled and drew the eye. More than once she’d seen men lugging antique chests or tables through the front door, so he was a procurer of furniture as well as knick-knacks. The more Belle thought about it, the more Mr. Gold’s shop seemed like an excellent place to start her Mental Health Day. No doubt everything would be far beyond her price range, but it would still be fun to take a look, and who knew, maybe she’d find a little something cheap to decorate her apartment with.

 

There was an uncomfortable tug at the base of Belle’s stomach—half excitement at the prospect of decorating her own space, half despair that it had come to this, and both emotions were wrapped up in residual anger, the absolute rage that her father would do this to her. Belle didn’t know what made her seethe more: that he thought he had the right to decide her fate for her, or that his decision was made out of a desire to fix his own troubles, rather than a desire to make her happy.

 

Heels clicking on the pavement, Belle looked down, slightly ashamed at her own thoughts. Her dad _did_ want her happy. She _knew_ that. He just… wasn’t always the best at showing it. Her mom had passed away when Belle was a baby and if she thought back hard enough she could distinguish fuzzy memories of her dad acting as a single parent should—kissing scraped knees, lulling her to sleep, caving and letting her eat sugary cereal for breakfast… memories of simple things that were proof that he cared, that he would always take care of her, unfailingly. But those memories felt distant now. What was clearer, knife sharp in Belle’s mind, were the images of her taking care of _him._ Ever since she’d started making a paycheck it seemed that all she was good for was paying the rent or picking up the tab for elaborate meals her dad couldn’t afford. As Game of Thorns continued to fail, it was clear that he relied more on his daughter’s money than on her company, or even just her advice. It was a truth she hadn’t been willing to admit until this morning.  

 

Belle loved her father—always—but marrying Gaston was the one thing she wouldn’t do for him.

 

With a start she looked up and found herself only a few stores down from the pawnshop, her feet having carried her there automatically. Briefly, Belle considered walking by and just heading home, the rumors of Mr. Gold’s cruelty getting the best of her. She’d certainly heard Ruby complain about him enough, but Belle attributed that more to her annoyance with taking him breakfast day in and day out—regardless of rain, snow, or hangovers. He also, supposedly, had a tongue sharper than any sword and a love of penalizing those who defaulted on their rent, if the rest of Storybrooke was to be believed.

 

Belle wouldn’t know. Manipulation or no she had never let her dad miss a payment and she had never spoken to Mr. Gold personally, no doubt because he never left the shop. The agoraphobia was admittedly… different, but anxiety disorders were no reason to not befriend a person. If anything, he must be lonely. She certainly couldn’t imagine it, spending all one’s time in a tiny shop with nothing but antiques for company. The mere idea was horrifying.

 

Belle frowned, her strides quickening with renewed purpose. It was about time she and Mr. Gold were properly introduced.

 

In fact, Belle was so focused on just entering the shop that she let out an embarrassing shriek of surprise when, instead of standing behind his counter, she found Mr. Gold seated directly next to the window.

 

It was reassuring that he seemed nearly as shocked as she was.

 

On the other side of the glass Belle watched as he gapped at her, mouth working silently. Timidly, when it was clear he wasn’t planning to move, Belle gave a little knock.

 

“Are you closed?” she called.

 

That seemed to jar him from his stupor because Mr. Gold sprang into action, snatching his cane and hopping down from the table with far more agility than Belle was expecting. He tore the door open, but as quickly as he’d been moving a moment ago he suddenly froze, just staring at her beyond the threshold.

 

“Belle,” he whispered.

 

“Oh, yes. I didn’t realize you knew who I was.” Belle gave a self-conscious little laugh. It was true everyone knew each other in Storybrooke, but people _knew_ Mr. Gold in a way that they didn’t know Belle.

 

“Of course I know you,” he murmured. Seeming to realize the implications of that, Mr. Gold straightened, adopting the confident persona she had expected of him. He fiddled a bit with his tie, straightening it to perfection. “That is to say, dearie, I’ve seen you walk by. Towards the library.” His eyes narrowed. “Which you are not currently staffing.”

 

“Ah yeah, no. Library’s closed today. Sorry.” Belle shrugged, feeling oddly as if she’d done something wrong. “I’m taking the day off. Its… been a hectic morning.”

 

“… I see.” Mr. Gold’s gaze jumped from her rumpled dress to her red-rimmed eyes and then down to the strap of her bag, fraying underneath her fingers. Belle had little doubt that this man saw a lot more than people would like; all those secrets you’d want to hide. She did her best not to fidget.

 

“Well, no need to apologize. It’s not as if I frequent our humble town’s library.” With a self-deprecating laugh he stood aside, waving her in with a remarkably colorful gesture. Belle shuffled in, not sure if she should laugh along or call him out on the terrible joke. He sounded so bitter.

 

The second her feet crossed onto the wooden floor he limped away, putting the counter between them. The sudden space between them surprised her, but Belle didn’t push. It was clear that Mr. Gold was uncomfortable, the only question was whether it was at the unexpected company or with her in particular. Belle couldn’t imagine _why_ it would be her. After all, they’d only just met. Yet for all her logic, Belle couldn’t shake how… personal his stare felt. It was undoubtedly a nervous look, but befuddled as well, like he didn’t know why _she_ was in his store, rather than another, unremarkable resident of Storybrooke. Whatever he was thinking, Belle gave Mr. Gold a smile, hoping to put him at ease.

 

He nearly dropped his cane instead.

 

“Is there…” Gold cleared his throat. “Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

 

“Oh no. I just wanted to browse. If that’s alright…?”

 

“Of course, of course.” When neither of them moved Gold gestured sharply to the rest of the shop. “Please,” he murmured.

 

Belle wandered into the far corner and for the first minute it was embarrassingly awkward, trying to look with his gaze heating her back. Eventually though, she saw Mr. Gold pull out a ledger, becoming engrossed in this new task, and for her part Belle fell headfirst into a wonderland of objects.

 

Mr. Gold’s collection was both beautiful and dark, but above all it was fascinating. Belle first found herself drawn to a letter opener with an imp-like creature carved into the handle. Cradling it gently—the point was still quite sharp, gleaming in the dull light—Belle avoided the imp’s mouth, stupidly fearful that it would come alive and bite her. She set it down with a shudder, only to raise her head and find herself face to face with a set of dolls, their eyes far too real for Belle’s liking. Bad enough that their gaze was as heavy, as tangible as Mr. Gold’s, but it wasn’t an indifferent look, or even the malevolent expression she’d come to expect from horror films. Rather the dolls looked… sad. So sad that they’d long ago descended into madness, and at that thought Belle skittered away. Best to ignore them, even if it did cause her an unexpected, guilty pang to do so.

 

Though a great deal of the merchandise flaunted disturbing characteristics, much more of it was simply beautiful in a uniquely exotic manner that took Belle’s breath away. A tapestry depicting a knight on horseback covered one wall (a knight who, oddly enough, looked a bit like the coma patient Belle visited at the hospital) and below the tapestry were chests that seemed plain at first glance, but actually framed elaborate hinges and keyholes flecked with gold. Belle discovered painted teapots and fountain pens, cuckoo clocks no larger than her hand, a set of odd chairs with fringe around the seat (pretty, but definitely not what she was looking for) and, Belle was delighted to find, a gorgeous skirt: blue cloth embroidered with delicate white flowers. It was obviously as old as everything else and a tad musty, but the seams looked well maintained. Belle was just about to ask Mr. Gold if he had somewhere she could try it on when she caught a flash of gold and the skirt was left on top of the nearest chest, forgotten.

 

It was a necklace.

 

Belle reached out a hand and instantly fell in love. The piece was magnificent in its simplicity, just a chain with a rose on the end. Though while the necklace as a whole was simple, the flower was intricately detailed. Each petal curved as naturally as a true bud and, looking closer, Belle could see the smallest beads of moisture dotting the edge. It wasn’t just a rose but a _specific_ rose, one found bent under morning dew and then lovingly rendered in gold. She let her nail skim one petal, hardly daring to touch it.

 

“You like it.”

 

It wasn’t a question and Belle should have jumped at Gold’s soft voice, suddenly right against her ear, but she was enthralled and could only nod dumbly. Belle didn’t generally care overly much for jewelry, tending to spend any leftover money on books—which admittedly wasn’t much—but this piece seemed made for her. She couldn’t resist.

 

“How much?” Belle asked, forgetting that she’d come for practical things to fill an apartment. Before Mr. Gold could answer she flipped the tag on the clasp. A darkly penned “350” stared back at her.

 

“Oh.” Belle extended the tag for him to see and gave a strangled laugh. “Never mind.”

 

Mr. gold’s expression was inscrutable. Belle had just started telling herself to get over it—she’d known she wouldn’t be able to afford any of this—when he gave a contemplative hum in the back of his throat.

 

“Just a moment, dearie.”

 

Perplexed, Belle watched as Mr. Gold thumped back behind the counter and reopened his ledger. For a second he leaned over the book, completely blocking her view, but when he rose Mr. Gold was tapping a column triumphantly. Belle trotted over.

 

“A slight error,” he said, shrugging easily. “It happens.”

 

There, under ‘Rose Necklace,’ was a solid “35” with a dot and two zeros following it, the first larger than the second. Mr. Gold smiled at her, gesturing towards the necklace. “Still interested?” he asked.

 

She was definitely interested, even more so now that she’d been lied to.

 

“Mr. Gold, do you take me for a fool?”

 

He scoffed. “Certainly not.”

 

“Really? Because that necklace is _not_ $35.”

 

“And how would you know that Miss French? Hmm? Are you an expert in antique jewelry? How fascinating. I never knew.” Gold leaned over the counter, grinning at her slyly. Belle was quite sure he was enjoying their banter and she didn’t know whether she should feel pleased or frustrated.

 

“It’s old?” She confirmed.

 

“Oh-ho. Yes indeed.”

 

“Then the mere fact that it’s an antique precludes it from being so cheap. I doubt anything here is $35.”

 

“Really, my dear—”

 

“Besides,” Belle leaned over the counter as well, stretching until she was just a few inches from his chest. Mr. Gold was coiled with tension, but he didn’t move back. If anything, he moved to meet her as she bent and tapped at the ledger. “I may not be an expert on antiques, but I _am_ an expert when it comes to books.” Belle underlined the “35.00” with her nail. “Writing. Ink. You added the decimal point and the extra zero when I wasn’t looking. The ink is glossy—not completely dry I’d wager— the tip is of a thicker make, it’s also a slightly different pigment than the pen previously used. Sloppy work, Mr. Gold.”

 

He hummed in appreciation, but would admit nothing. Belle watched as he eased back, making his way towards the necklace and slinging it onto one finger.

 

“Do you want the necklace or not, Miss French?”

 

Everyone in town knew of Mr. Gold’s deals. They were built on a simple formula: a deal could be struck so long as both parties had something the other wanted, but the deal would _always_ favor the pawnbroker. Belle had been warned about Mr. Gold’s mercilessness for what felt like forever—don’t engage in a deal unless absolutely necessary, and don’t ever, under _any_ circumstances, try to weasel your way out of a contract, for Mr. Gold always came to collect. A few of the more foolish residents had thought to cheat him years ago, thinking that his agoraphobia would make him easy to avoid. They learned quickly that being stuck in a shop meant little when you owned the majority of the town and could summon Sheriff Graham at will. Mr. Gold wasn’t a man you wanted to be indebted to.

 

Belle was keenly aware that this deal didn’t benefit Mr. Gold.

 

“Yes,” she said.

 

Why? She couldn’t say. Belle only knew that it didn’t feel like she was walking into a trap. It was something about his body language. Mr. Gold stood across the shop, the easy closeness over the ledger obliterated. He even leaned away from her, only extending the necklace with an eagerness that contradicted the rest of his stance. It was like he wanted her to take it, desperately, and that should have tipped Belle off that this was some kind of scandal… but it didn’t. It just seemed like he wanted her to have it.

 

What was that about gift horses? Belle was having too terrible a day to even think about refusing gifts.

 

“Yes,” she repeated.

 

“Very well. That’ll be $35, dearie.”

 

Belle pulled the wad of cash out and was embarrassed to find that Ruby had given her far more than thirty-five. She snatched three tens and a five, holding them up before placing them onto the counter. When she reached for the necklace, however, Mr. Gold pulled away.

 

“You’ll have to come back,” he said quickly and immediately winced.

 

Belle raised one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

 

“That is,” Mr. Gold floundered a moment, his hands twirling. The necklace glinted as it was swept about. “There’s… things that need doing, before a purchase is ready to be taken home. It should be cleaned, packaged carefully. I like to keep a detailed record of all my sales... you know…” he smiled, a little desperately.

 

“Things,” Belle finished.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Of course. My mistake.”

 

“Then you’ll come back?”

 

What a terribly odd question. She’d paid for the piece, so of course she’d be back. It was that nonsense query more than anything else that assured Belle this wasn’t really about the necklace.

 

“I’d be delighted to,” she said. “Is this afternoon too soon? Around 5:00?”

 

“No—I mean, yes. 5:00 is fine.” Mr. Gold’s shoulders relaxed in what could only be relief. He tucked the necklace into his jacket pocket, quickly, as if he feared she’d snatch it from him. In acknowledgement of that unconscious gesture, Belle gave him a wide berth as she made for the door.

 

“5:00?” he repeated and Belle didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh.

 

“Yes, 5:00. _Thank you_ , Mr. Gold.”

 

“Quite welcome, dearie, quite welcome. Ah… enjoy the rest of your day off.”

 

It came off sounding like a question, but Belle gamely thanked him again, giving a little wave and a soft, “See you soon.” She didn’t turn, but she could feel Mr. Gold’s eyes on her again, drinking her in. It should have felt creepy, an older man she hardly knew staring at her so fixedly, but the gaze was just… there. Belle left the pawnshop feeling like she’d been warped in a warm and incredibly heavy blanket.

 

She’d been wrong though. Mr. Gold wasn’t interested in giving her that necklace for a measly $35. Apparently, the price for such a gorgeous bit of jewelry was another visit from her.

 

Belle should have felt used, cheap even, but instead she was grateful… and just a little bit sad. It was easy to see that Mr. Gold was lonely, locked away as he was in that shop and so far Belle hadn’t seen anything that would deter her company; a bit manipulative perhaps, but not the monster Storybrooke made him out to be. Isolated as he’d been for so long, Mr. Gold probably didn’t know how to ask for company. Asking may have even seemed too scary.

 

Belle smiled. She knew it was hard to be brave. Saying no to her dad, planning to move out… those things were brave, but she wouldn’t have managed them without people like Ruby and Granny. Friends were everything.

 

If the infamous Mr. Gold was looking for a friend, Belle was more than happy to oblige him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Belle had lived in the Dark Castle two months and in that time she’d collected about two thousand rules:_

_Do your chores, dearie._

_Do them_ quietly.

 

_No dawdling, no lazing, no starting the day late._

_No staying up late either—you need rest to work!_

_Don’t enter my chamber, don’t enter my lab, don’t talk to the guests who’ve come to make deals or—eh, what? Oh... Yes, fine. I suppose it’s alright if they talk to you first. But don’t make a habit of it! No one likes a chattering bird, dearie, and speaking of which, what have I told you about that damnable_ humming—

 

_That was the first week. By the third Belle had freed a thief, hugged Rumpelstiltskin, and earned herself a bedroom instead of a dungeon. In that time the rules had changed as well, their new specificity hiding her captor’s (dare she think it?) growing concern for her._

_No more laundry for you, dearie. I’d prefer my clothes large enough to fit into, yes? (Though Rumpelstiltskin gazed only at her red, raw hands, rather than the shrunken shirt he held.)_

_No staying up late—you need rest to work! (But the next morning Belle would wake to find the day half gone and Rumpelstiltskin would shrug the lapse away, saying he’d been too busy to bother with breakfast.)_

_He’d eat heartily at lunch though and when he gave her his library (dust the books, scrub the floor, don’t think that you can waste all your time in here, dearie…) Belle spent many a night curled up with a story, reading until the sun rose or she slipped into unconsciousness—whichever came first. Two months in and Rumpelstiltskin only reminded her of the ‘no late night’ rule when her eyes became puffy with fatigue and he never complained about her humming anymore. If anything, his hands stilled in his spinning whenever she began to sing._

_The rules changed dramatically during those first two months, most of them for the better, but one remained fixed from start to finish: Belle was not to leave the castle. Never. Ever. Under absolutely positively not-even-if-it’s-life-threatening-dearie circumstances. No trips to the village or walks in the garden. Belle wasn’t even allowed to answer the door. The last time she’d been outside was when they had chased after Robin Hood and that had been under Rumpelstiltskin’s direct supervision. Despite her jitters and the cravings for fresh air, Belle didn’t dare ask to go out on her own. Not when amidst the newfound tender looks and revealing conversations, Rumpelstiltskin still dropped giggling reminders that something truly awful would befall any foolish maid who tried to escape. Belle would just smile when he said such things. She had no intention of escaping._

_That didn’t mean that Belle didn’t make mistakes though._

_“Rumpelstiltskin?”_

_She poked her head through the lab’s door, a tea tray balanced against her hip. This was another changed rule: Belle could invade Rumpelstiltskin’s most sacred place if it was to bring him food… or a book from the library, or if she had a question about her duties, or, really, even if she was just bored. Half the time Rumpelstiltskin called her himself, some flimsy excuse flying too quickly from his lips. Belle was beginning to understand just how lonely he must be, and she made every effort to ease that._

_“Hello?”_

_Unexpectedly, the room appeared to be empty. Belle hadn’t encountered Rumpelstiltskin on the tower’s one staircase, though that meant little when one was dealing with a sorcerer who could disappear at will. Indeed, the lab had all the signs of recent occupancy—from lit candles to delicate potions simmering in various colors. Rumpelstiltskin wouldn’t leave them unattended for long and if Belle peered closely, she thought she could just make out wisps of residual purple smoke in the air. Though perhaps that was just her imagination._

_Belle hadn’t seen her employer all morning—who knew what temper he might be in today—so she was half tempted to leave the tray and scurry off. She dismissed the thought quickly though. Belle knew that there was more than deals, giggles, and cruel quips underneath that scaly skin, she’d seen it after all, but she also knew that she’d never discover anything more if she didn’t voluntarily spend time with Rumpelstiltskin. Belle had to show him that there was more to a relationship, more to living in a castle alone together, than just ordering her about or random collisions in the halls. There had to be conversation between them and Belle got the feeling that Rumpelstiltskin would never open up to a maid… for maids didn’t want to be here, did they? They cried over being forced to leave their family and plotted escape plans in the night. It was a maid who might try to slip deadly herbs into his tea. She needed to show him_ Belle, _a woman who had chosen to come and who now chose to stay. Choice. Agency. Belle decided her own fate, and right now she decided to wait for Rumpelstiltskin._

_So she slid the tray onto the nearest table, next to a covered basket of something squirming. With a sigh Belle tugged off her apron and laid it gently over the tea. It would do little to keep their food from cooling, but at least there’d be a thin barrier if anything… emerged. It wouldn’t be the first time._

_That done, there was little else for Belle to do. She wasn’t allowed to touch anything within the lab without Rumpelstiltskin there—nor would she want to—and softly calling his name didn’t produce her employer. It seemed that he was attuned to the tone of her voice. Call him with frustration and he’d take his sweet time appearing, but were she to scream…_

_Belle sighed again. She certainly wouldn’t scream without cause, nor would she start on the tea without him; that was just rude. So Belle sat. The basket continued to rustle and the potions continued to simmer. The afternoon’s fading sun cast odd designs on the stone floor. It was getting cooler too, the breeze coming from the open window, skipping across Rumpelstiltskin’s open books before it pierced through the cotton of her dress. That, at least, was something she could easily rectify. Belle stood to close the window._

_The funny thing about magic though is that it lacks will. Like wind or water, it must be channeled by another in order for there to be any semblance of order. Rumpelstiltskin knew this, which is why he meticulously maintained every long term spell he cast, and why he warned Belle not to leave the castle under_ any _circumstances. Magic couldn’t distinguish between escape and opening the door for a client. It couldn’t tell if Belle wanted to wander the gardens or pick those fatal herbs for a sorcerer’s tea. Magic knew only what it was told by its master and Rumpelstiltskin had said only that his maid wasn’t to leave._

_So when Belle’s arm breached the castle’s threshold, meaning only to draw the window closed, that was, by the magic’s understanding, an attempt at escape. Nothing more, but certainly nothing less._

_It should also be noted that at the time of the spell’s casting, Rumpelstiltskin had a singular view of his new maid: she would despise him, and for her revulsion he would come to despise her in turn. She would try to escape (of course she would) and Rumpelstiltskin would gleefully watch as her last moments were spent in agony; she, a representation of every woman who’d ever sneered his way—for cowardice, or callous deeds, or for molted green skin. Taking Maurice’s daughter had been a whim and he’d planned to keep this maid for only as long as she could bear his company—two days? Three?—then she would serve only as a brief, flickering bit of entertainment before she died, a death brought on by her own disobedience. How amusing._

_Of course, Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t counted on Belle._

_Belle counted on the sorcerer’s willingness to appear when she screamed._

_She was right._

_The second Belle’s fingers touched the mountain air outside, the air from her own lungs was wrenched from her. Magic pulled her backwards, like a simultaneous yank on her hair and a punch to her stomach, and Belle flew across the room with a speed vicious enough to pop her ears. Just as quickly Belle halted—it was here that she managed a scream, breathy and gurgled—before the magic took hold of her once more, bending her in half like a brittle twig. The enchantment was visible now, long strands of white mist that twisted around her limbs, anchoring her as easily as a fly in a hungry spider’s web. The difference lay in that these strands burned. Smoke began to rise around her and Belle, muddled heavily by pain, was only half aware that it came from her own skin, the magic wrapping about her wrists, ankles, waist, calf, neck—tightening down to the bone. Yet she did not bleed, and some tiny, shocked part of Belle’s mind noted that she could still breathe, the cord around her neck remaining loose. The majority of her clothes burned away, leaving Belle in flimsy rags that smelled of char. One strand found its way into her hair, wrapping around the middle and immediately eating through the strands. Her locks fell to the table below, landing with a soft_ thump _against the wood._

 

_Belle hung in the center of the lab, like a marionette on gruesome strings._

_All of this happened in an instant. The magic thought it knew what it was about: keep the girl in; string her up for the master. Cause pain, not enough to kill, but it was just enough to shock Belle into unconsciousness, her rigid body giving itself to the trap about her. Had she remained awake a moment longer her blinded eyes might have seen Rumpelstiltskin’s entrance, his appearance as dramatic as was his wont, but this time for entirely different reasons. In his desperation to reach Belle and discover the cause of her scream—(knife-like through his skull, irresistible, so much louder than he’d admit to)— he materialized directly above her, eyes wild at that first, horrifying glimpse of her body. They went tumbling to the ground together, Rumpelstiltskin tearing the strands from her flesh as he went, punctuating each slash with a vicious roar. He straddled her, maneuvered her, growled at her in a language all his own. In that moment he truly looked like a beast ravaging a maiden. Few would realize that he was actually trying to save her._

_Belle would have realized. But for now, she was deep, deep down._

_***_

_Belle woke to a plethora of sensations, all of them skimming across her body and greedily demanding her attention. For a moment she could only focus on breathing, though even that felt lighter and sharper than it should._

_When Belle was sure that she would not panic—pass out again, draw attention to herself, vomit in fear and choke if she was unable to move—she catalogued the impressions, writing lists in her head on parchment as brittle as she felt. The most obvious sensation came from her limbs, each of them weighted with the familiar scratch of bandages—though admittedly the strips were softer than those she’d used on her village’s battlefields. Stretching her leg a bit (and huffing in relief that she_ could _move) Belle felt a layer of medicine beneath; cool, but slightly grainy. Lifting her arm she saw similar bandages down to her wrist, wrapping around each individual finger as well. Here the medicine seeped out between the folds as she flexed a bit. It was green in color and pungent in smell, though not unpleasantly so. It reminded Belle of the rooms in her father’s castle where the maids did the washing, their soaps and perfumes permeating the air._

_With her body remembering what it was to move Belle found that she could sit up, though she did so slowly and with plenty of whimpers. Grasping at balance, she discovered that she was surrounded by a mountain of covers, satin soft on one side with wool on the other. She was somewhere safe then. Warm. Cared for. Not her father’s castle… Rumpelstiltskin’s. With a sigh, Belle allowed herself to fall back against the pillows, dragging her hand up to cradle her aching head. Her fingers were shocked to discover not her usual mane of hair but a short bob that ended just below her ears._

_“It will grow back.”_

_Belle didn’t startle at the voice. A good thing, given the state she was in. Instead, she merely rolled her head across the pillows until she was facing the fireplace. There, Rumpelstiltskin lay languidly in a chair, poking at the flames with his boot. Tender and confused, Belle couldn’t tell if he too was exhausted or… something else._

_“My hair?” she settled on asking. He nodded.  “I’m glad.” Her voice was as scratchy as she’d expected, trembling with fatigue. Belle swallowed a few times before continuing. “Grow back as in, naturally, or grow back like…?”_

_To her surprise Rumpelstiltskin barked a laugh. Not his familiar giggle, but a deep vibration that made him sound both more human and infinitely more sad. He still refused to look at her._

_“Grow back as in magic, dearie,” he said. “A pretty little potion I’d procured; meant to use it on a particularly long haired maiden. One she’d been born of course. Rapunzel, Rapunzel…” Rumpelstiltskin drew a hand through the air, conducting invisible music. “Powerful hair, that. Would have been useful to grow it back, once the ninny cut it all off. Ah potential… but it’s no matter now.” Rumpelstiltskin shrugged and oddly, Belle got the sense that it_ was _no matter. That he truly didn’t mind wasting such a precious commodity on her. He sunk lower into his chair and nudged the coals._

_“It’ll grow back in another hour or so,” he sighed._

_“Oh. Okay. Thank you—”_

_“_ Don’t _—_! _” His clawed fingers seized, cutting into the chair. Just as suddenly Rumpelstiltskin relaxed. “You don’t need to thank me, dearie.” He said, the familiar tilt returning to his voice. He sounded defensive and a little bit panicky. “It was a purely selfish decision, I assure you. I prefer my maids pretty and that ragged beggar look just doesn’t suit you.”_

_“…Of course.”_

_Belle hardly knew what was going on, why Rumpelstiltskin was acting this way, but images were beginning to return to her. She remembered climbing the tower steps with a tea tray, calling for Rumpelstiltskin, the window, the… magic, hanging in the air while she burned and everything went dark. Belle snuck a look at her bandaged arms and though the strips of cloth hid most from her, she could feel that her flesh was once again whole. She was only tired and aching, as if she’d recovered from a long illness. Even half asleep it wasn’t difficult to figure it out. Rumpelstiltskin had_

_“—healed me.” Belle only realized that she’d said the last bit out loud when he tensed again, calves creaking in leather boots. Nevertheless, Belle knew that it needed repeating._

_“You healed me,” she said, as clearly as she was able. Rumpelstiltskin only sneered._

_“Can’t have you lazing about in bed, dearie.” He muttered. “You’ve work to do.”_

_“Still, you’ve said it yourself, all magic comes with a price—”_

_“What? You think I’m incapable of paying it?”_

_“Certainly not. Only—”_

_“Only_ what _?” he snarled._

_“Only thank you.” Belle smiled, even though it made her face tingle unpleasantly. “You saved me.”_

_There was silence until again came the barking laugh, but this time it was higher, less steady. “You’re an idiot girl, aren’t you?” Rumpelstiltskin said, glaring at the flames. “Oh yes, what a fool I’ve procured. Do you thank the wolf for its howls, dearie? Drawing help to you only after you’ve been bitten? Would you thank the men who carry you to a warm bed after they’ve had their way with your pretty little body?” Belle blushed, but Rumpelstiltskin only cackled. “I do believe that fall scrambled your brains.”_

_“I left the castle,” she murmured and winced when he hissed like a snake. “Technically,” she amended._

_His posture, the lack of eye contact… any fool could tell that he regretted what had happened… any fool but Rumpelstiltskin. Belle wouldn’t call him out on it though. It was enough to know that such an emotion existed in the Dark One. Anyone with the ability to regret also had the ability to change._

_Belle watched quietly as Rumpelstiltskin reigned himself in. When he did turn to look at her—finally—his features were surprisingly soft._

_“I excel in technicalities,” he said. “This time though…” and Belle knew that the silence that followed was the closest thing to an apology she’d probably ever receive. She nodded._

_Standing with a slowness that spoke of his age, Rumpelstiltskin bent over the fire and took up one of the coals he’d been playing with. Belle winced at first, remembering the burn of magic and the hot stink of her own cooking flesh, but Rumpelstiltskin merely moved it about, biding time. Finally he turned and let a claw delve into his pocket. When his fingers unfurled there was a necklace; a beautiful rose._

_“It looks so real,” Belle whispered and Rumpelstiltskin nodded._

_“Magic is tricky,” he said. “Difficult to order about sometimes. It doesn’t understand change and I never…” he stopped, swallowed, then moved to pool the necklace into her bandaged palm, careful all the while not to touch her. “That enchantment’s already woven into the castle see, set in its ways, can’t change it, dearie, but I can change you.” He fluttered at her, the familiar gesture easing something in Belle’s chest. “Wear the necklace. It’ll allow you to go as far as the gate without further… incident. Windows, doors, the garden… whatever that silly little head of yours desires.”_

_Belle smiled more easily now. Peering at the necklace, she took time to admire the detailed petals. She was sure it would have been just as easy for Rumpelstiltskin to charm a scratchy bit of twine to go about her neck, but he’d chosen this instead. She accepted the flower as graciously as she could manage, given the circumstances._

_The clasp was too delicate for her to maneuver with her bandages, but Belle knew better than to ask for Rumpelstiltskin’s assistance, not just yet. So instead she just traced her gift and continued to smile._

_“You trust me with this?” she asked after a time. Belle looked up… but Rumpelstiltskin was gone. He’d left water and soup by her bed, an extra blanket at her feet, but all that remained of him was a waft of purple smoke._

_Belle clutched the necklace against her chest. In moments she was asleep._


	5. Chapter 5

Gold fingered the necklace the entire time Belle was exiting his shop. He focused on tracing his thumb over and around the petals—methodical, trance inducing—anything to restrain himself from following her. He watched as her dress flared out at her quick steps, nearly getting caught in the door, as she marched back towards the heart of town (without, he couldn’t help but note, looking back), as her hair bounced, a flash of her hand the last thing her saw…

 

Gold couldn’t help himself. With a curse he lurched forward, hobbling as quickly as he could to the window, pressing his face pathetically against the glass. Belle was still there, further down the street now. He stared until she turned a corner, her hair and hand again being the last things he saw.

 

Belle had been here. Impossibly _here_. Her perfume still hung in the air and Gold’s hand clutched a necklace that he hadn’t dared touch in years. It bit into his palm and he smiled.

 

Amazing, these turns of fate. The wears and tears that worked their way into the most intricate of plans. Gold knew the feeling well. After all, how often in the past three hundred years had he been thrown, manipulated for the universe’s pleasure? A plan to become the Dark One that didn’t account for the loss of a son… recalculating… a plan to retrieve a son that didn’t account for a beautiful maid… recalculating… a new plan, convoluted and indecipherable, a million, miniscule pieces falling satisfactorily into place… until he attempted so simple a task as walking out his front door. Recalculating.

 

Yet now… now grain had been tossed into Regina’s machine. Gold wondered how long she’d plotted this world of hers. A long time, though certainly not out of any forethought. Such detail only emerged through her obsession to destroy the happiness around her, including, unknowingly, her own. Every possibility accounted for, a net tight enough to entrap even the Dark One… yet Regina hadn’t accounted for Belle. One pull in an otherwise flawless thread; the catch that unraveled the spool.

 

“I can sympathize, dearie,” he whispered. “Belle’s now managed to surprise us both. Amazing, don’t you think?”

 

She _had_ surprised him. Years of walking past his shop, she’d never once paid him any mind. Belle wasn’t meant to. Her purpose here was to lead a colorless life until a so-called savior bothered to show up. So why the change today? Head still resting against the storefront, Gold’s breath picked up until it fogged the glass. It couldn’t have been anything good, he knew that much. Belle hadn’t decided to pop in merely out of the goodness of her heart—though no doubt she would have had she been able. Beauty, inching into the castle of the Beast.

 

Gold frowned.

 

But magic didn’t work that way. The curse Regina had cast was too powerful for such trivialities. No, something awful had happened to his Belle, something that jarred her just enough to… slip. Enough of a shock that an impression of her old life filtered through, enough to lead her here and draw her, unconsciously, to all the pieces he’d kept within the Dark Castle. Belle couldn’t remove herself from the curse’s effects, but she could alter them just a bit. Like donning a necklace that allowed you to slip through the cracks of a caging spell…

 

Gold continued to finger the piece; light strokes for fear of breaking it. He was still wedged awkwardly between the door and the table, his leg screaming, but he couldn’t move away. Not when there was the possibility that Belle might walk back this way, catch his eye, maybe even mouth ‘hello’…

 

She’d promised to come back.

 

So Gold would wait. Until 5:00. Then Belle, keeper of promises, would float back through his door. He was sure of it. Had to be. He’d gift her with a necklace she already owned and show off the rest of his collection, enticing her to come back. Just once more. Than once more again. And again. And again. And again… He _needed_ her to come back. Find out what had happened that made her slip, whether this pulled thread could be used to his advantage. He needed to know exactly what had become of her in the months before the curse hit, how she’d fared. Gold needed power in this world, and information was power’s most lethal form. It was a business calculation, self-preservation…

 

…No.  

 

The glass cooled against his forehead. Gold sighed. A mist formed and reminded him how of distorted such thoughts were. They were lies. He didn’t need Belle for his plans.

 

He just needed her to come back.

 

He just needed _her_.  

 

Gold leaned painfully on his leg, gazing endlessly out the window. In the depths of his shop he thought her heard a woman’s voice, just a breath, whispering that he looked lonely.

 

***

 

Ruby arrived first.

 

Her red scarf gone and her skirt still squeaking, she marched violently into the pawnshop, popping what had to have been at least two sticks of gum, judging by the wad size. The little bell atop the door went off and Gold scowled, imagining another Belle he’d much prefer to have chattering away. The wolf girl was a poor substitute.

 

It had taken him nearly two hours to pull himself from the window, and that was only after the frightened looks had begun to register. Snow heading towards the park with a pack of urchins in her wake, that demandable cricket on his way to lunch… they started off with smiles on their faces until they caught sight of Storybrooke’s monster, his maw slavering against the glass. Gold could see their thoughts whipping across their faces. What man pressed so tightly against a barrier, obviously desperate to pass it, but never bothering to actually leave? Who could scowl at the world so viciously? The cricket had hurried off—again—and Snow actually looked as if she might cry, bundling the children away; turning their faces. While normally their fear would have pleased him, today Gold felt only a low burn in his blood; a potent mix of disgust for these people, rage at Regina, that same singing anxiety he’d felt in the Charming’s cage, that despite it being a part of the plan he simply _couldn’t get out_ —

 

It drove even thoughts of Belle from his head and Gold had forced himself back behind the counter. He’d been polishing the same candelabra ever since, Belle’s necklace still hanging from his arm. It clinked calmingly every time he moved.

 

At Ruby’s entrance Gold checked the antique clock in the store’s corner. 5:00 pm. Belle wasn’t here. Not yet.

 

“You’re late,” he snapped, lying, not entirely sure if he spoke to the wolf or the Beauty. “When I say five, dearie, I _mean_ five. Not four-fifty-nine, not five o’ three, _five_.”

 

“Holy hell, Gold, what stick was rammed up your ass today?” Ruby popped her gum loudly. “Someone break something pretty?”

 

He shook the cleaning rag, brandishing the tip like a sword. “The only pretty thing that’ll be breaking is your face, if you don’t hop to it.”

 

“Well thanks for the compliment.” The ‘I think’ she added wasn’t near quiet enough.

 

The wolf girl started her rounds without fuss though. Sauntering into the back Gold could hear her rummaging about, picking up the various trashcans and emptying them into the bags he kept on hand. There wasn’t much. Everyone expected the wealthy Mr. Gold to feast like a king, but that just wasn’t feasible when one was confined to a pawnshop. All the food Mrs. Lucas brought was premade, microwavable, or simply fresh produce that he could toss into salads. Everything was thrown onto disposable plates and cups were washed in the bathroom. Gold’s dietary habits weren’t exactly excessive, but one would think he’d indulged in a seven-course meal, given how long the Lucas girl was taking.

 

Gold ground his teeth, wiping the cloth viciously. “Come now, dearie,” he called. “Not filching, are you?” He heard indignant muttering in response and mentally urged the girl to hurry it up. It was abhorrent, a canine with the motivational speed of a snail.

 

“I have _never_ stolen.”

 

Ruby eased through the curtain, a half filled bag tossed over her shoulder. She clucked angrily around her gum. “Not that you’d notice, creep.” She eyed the packed room, distastefully glancing back to where his bed resided.

 

“Oh, I’d notice,” Gold swore. “Get on with it.”

 

There were two more trashcans in this room, one behind the counter, the other lodged underneath an embroidered stool near the door. Ruby walked all the way around to the front of the counter before coming back from the other side. She always gave him a wide berth, those instincts of hers kicking in, but Gold was feeling particularly nasty. 5:11 and Belle still wasn’t here. He deliberately shifted closer to the girl, nudging the can further under the counter. Ruby had to drop down to his knees to reach it and he growled happily.

 

“Fucking ass,” she muttered.

 

“Now, now dearie, language. What would your dear grandma have to say about that mouth of yours?”

 

“Oh, Granny’s got a sharper tongue than me, Gold. She’ll slice you up, dish you out, and feed you to some poor, unsuspecting customer.”

 

“For an inordinate price, no doubt.”

 

“Whatever.” Bag almost full now, Ruby allowed it to hit his shoulder as she walked past. Gold felt something soft and rotting press against his suit. “Speaking of,” she said, all false cheer. “Granny wants to know what you’ll be needing for her next trip. You hankering for some babies’ blood?”

 

“I’m on a strict ‘errand girl only’ diet.”

 

“Looks like you’re running low on toilet paper,” Ruby snapped.

 

Gold gestured imperiously to the last wastebasket. As he did so the necklace ran from his elbow down past his wrist, catching safely on one of his rings. Ruby’s eyes were immediately drawn to the piece, no doubt wondering why her evil boss was using a rose necklace as a bracelet, but Gold’s stare spoke volumes.

 

Get on with it.

 

The girl huffed, muttering another, “whatever,” and strolled languidly towards the last of the trash. Gold resisted the urge to close his eyes and beg for patience. Regina had enforced solitude on him, but now that he actually wanted to be alone…

 

If that wolf didn’t leave his shop soon he’d drag her out on a leash, curse or no curse. The clock. 5:17. Belle was late, quite late, but a large part of Gold couldn’t help but be relieved. The last thing he wanted was for Ruby to be hanging about when Belle finally showed u—

 

“Oh!”

 

The bell tingled and Gold looked up just in time to see Belle— _his_ Belle—tripping over the wolf girl’s leg. In that split second his heart rose with the knowledge that she had indeed come back, only to plummet as she tipped forward. There was a brief, sickening image of Belle lying broken at his feet and Gold had just enough time left to wonder, in horror, if he’d somehow retained any of his prophetic abilities in this world.

 

Belle managed to regain her balance though, by cartwheeling her arms a bit and hopping a bit more. She looked so much like her old self in that moment—falling from a ladder, constantly catching the hem of her dress as she attempted to clean—that Gold had to grip the counter with all his strength, lest he reach out to her.

 

“I’m good!” she chirped and at the same time Ruby scrambled to her feet, screeching apologies. Gold limped their way. His right hand took up his cane, the necklace alighting against the wood, while his left couldn’t help but reach forward anyway. His fingertips brushed against her elbow and he sighed.

 

“You’re here,” he said, and then immediately realized how ridiculous that sounded. “That is, you’re sure you’re alright?”

 

“Fine,” she said and bounced a little to show her steadiness. “Kept my feet that time. Never done that before…”

 

“I’m sorry.” Ruby moaned the apology. Belle might have landed on her wrist, hit her head against one of his endless antiques, but even so, Gold felt that her remorse was a tad overdone. That is, until Ruby followed it with, “This _really_ isn’t your day, is it?”

 

Indeed? Was visiting the town monster enough of a reason for her commiseration, or did the wolf refer to whatever had jarred Belle?

 

“I’m fine, Ruby, really,” she said. “I just—oops.”

 

All three followed Belle’s gaze to her feet where a tiny mountain range of trash had appeared, littering the Oriental rug. Bits of mushy pear—a snack from three days ago—were leaking between the fibers. Ruby went as red as her skirt, but it was Belle who apologized.

 

“Mr. Gold, I’m so sorry, I’ll—”

 

“Never you mind, dearie.” Unable to help himself, Gold reached out once more to brush an imaginary bit of lint from the top of her dress. He ignored the wolf’s bug-eyed stare, as well as the little voice in the back of him mind reminding him that, one of these days, he’d reach out to Belle and she’d bat his hand away. Today though, she merely frowned down at his carpet. “It was an accident.”

 

“But the rug…”

 

“No one’s ever going to be buying this rug. It’s a fixture of the pawnshop. Bit like me.” Gold gave a grin with far too many teeth, aimed over Belle’s shoulder at Ruby. “I’ll just get a dustpan and you can clean this up, yes?”

 

The girl’s surprise was quickly replaced with her familiar scowl. “Yeah, yeah.”

 

“Excellent. Then you and I can finish our transaction, Miss French.”

 

Gold limped to the back, keeping a slow, steady pace. He knew exactly where the dustpan was. After all, it wasn’t as if Regina could have been bothered to give him a _large_ cage to live in, but Gold took his time. He made the appropriate rummaging noises and, as he’d hoped, the girls began to talk.

 

“ _Transaction_?” It was the wolf, of course, her voice hushed and dripping with disbelief. “Belle, the fuck does he mean, ‘transaction’?”

 

“How do you make that sound so dirty?” Belle’s voice, in contrast, was nearly as loud as when she’d been speaking with him and she sounded, he was amused to hear, quite confused. “I just bought a necklace.”

 

“A nec—? You don’t mean a rose one, do you?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Fucking hell, Belle, I told you to buy cupcakes!”

 

“I did! … Just, afterwards.” Gold heard a distinct rustle and, yes, recalled that Belle was carrying a small white bag. “Dammit. The icing got all smushed.”

 

“… Sorry ‘bout that. But Gold’s? _Really?_ You shame my tip money, girl. He’s—” Ruby’s voice dropped even lower and Gold inched closer to the curtain. His need to hear more about Belle’s cursed life warred with his instinct to pull her away before Ruby could say something … damaging.

 

“—a creep! A filthy, manipulative, _creep._ More so than Whale. Than Gaston! Or did we not go over this?”

 

 

Gold closed his eyes, feeling ill. Gaston. Belle’s fiancé from the Enchanted Forest. The remarkably handsome man heading her father’s troops who, without his own interference, would have been the one to bed her, _marry_ her. Gold’s knuckles creaked along the top of his cane and breath hissed out through his teeth. It was true that the boy was a fool, less than a fool, but good looks and wealth offered a woman nearly as much here as they did in their own world. Not to mention youth and an ability to, oh, you know _, go outside_ … Gold grimaced. Belle had once told him that she could never love a man as superficial as Gaston, but that was before he tossed her out of his castle, put her through who knew what in the proceeding months, trapped her in a curse—

 

“ _Gaston_.”

 

Gold nearly dropped his cane at the unexpected venom in Belle’s voice. “Belle” and “cruel” were words well separated from one another, but that name on her lips sounded… disgusted. Whatever pity was there—and he could still hear it, buried deep—was nearly masked by an angry frustration. He’d never heard her use that tone before. Not when the oaf had tried to detain her that day when he’d been summoned, not even when he himself had been at his worst. Gold did wonder though, when she’d regained all her memories, what his name would sound like in her mouth, now.

 

He wasn’t given the chance to dwell on that.

 

“Can we not talk about him?” Belle muttered. There it was. The disgust was quickly giving way to resignation. “Or, you know,” her voice morphed into something even softer, “Dad.”

 

Maurice? What had he done? Was he perhaps encouraging, even pressuring, the relationship between the beauty and the dunce? Gold’s lip curled.

 

“Ugh. Yeah, hun, don’t worry about that. Just… ” he heard the wolf huff loudly and he imagined a house collapsing. “Don’t you want to go buy jewelry someplace else? You realize Gold’s been weari—”

 

“Here we are.” Gold emerged carrying the dustpan and deftly slipped Belle’s necklace from his wrist down into his pocket. Ruby caught the motion and scowled at his ‘timely’ entrance.

 

“Took you long enough,” she said, tone dry. “Funny, how you manage to lose anything in this matchbox.”

 

“Ruby,” Belle hissed, but Gold only smiled. He handed the brush over and made shooing motions until she began cleaning up the mess she’d made. 

 

The three of them were silent for some time as Ruby swept up the debris, Gold watching her, Belle awkwardly glancing between them. When the last bit of trash was again inside its bag he drew the wolf to her feet, hoping for Belle’s sake that the gesture looked more gentlemanly than threatening. However, the girl’s wince when his fingers latched onto her arm told another story.

 

“Thank you, dearie,” he murmured. Did it sound soothing, or more like a growl? “Very helpful, as always. Same time tomorrow, yes? Best be off. Wouldn’t want your grandmother worrying. Certainly not…”

 

Gold escorted her to the door—and that was as far he could go. Ruby grinned as his hand snapped away from her, right before she crossed the threshold. He wanted nothing more than to slam the door in her face, but if his fingers were to so much as brush the outside air…

 

They faced one another, glaring.

 

“Ruby…”

 

It was Belle and Gold jumped at hearing how close her voice had gotten. She was right at his back, pressing him forward. Her warmth, intangible though it was, nevertheless tickled his neck and got caught between his skin and the collar of his shirt. Gold suppressed a moan, half out of desire, half out of pain, as there were suddenly a thousand instincts warring in each of his limbs: gain some distance from Belle, keep back from the wolf, don’t get too close to the door, give in and press back until she’s entirely flush against you…

 

Gold’s body settled on seizing up entirely.

 

Belle continued as if there was nothing amiss, and perhaps for her there wasn’t. In another life how many times had she flitted into his space, happily chatting away while all he could do was marvel at how close she dared to stand, how her hands nearly brushed him with every gesture? Now she tipped her head up, arching her neck to see past him. Belle’s hair nearly touched his shoulder and Gold thought that, if they actually were to touch, he would be helpless not to lean back, the consequences of such an action be damned.

 

“Is that offer still open, Ruby?” Belle asked, her voice sweet.

 

“Offer…?”

 

“About, ah…”

 

Gold did move then. Twisting to the side so that he could see Belle’s face, flushed a pretty pink.

 

“Remember? About staying with you? Just for tonight.”

 

Ruby jerked and then softened “Yeah! Why don’t…” she not so subtly nodded in his direction. “Why don’t you just pop by the diner when you’re done here? You know, _right_ when you’re done? We can head over to my house together. Maybe… chat…?”

 

“Sure, Ruby.” It sounded like Belle was smothering a laugh. He didn’t look again to check though. The last thing Gold wanted was to look too closely, to trick himself into saying or doing something he’d regret. Instead he edged forward that extra inch he still had.

 

“Goodbye, Miss Lucas,” he said and miracle of miracles, she actually left. The little bell above the door rang and Gold found another one smiling behind him.

 

Belle was still wearing the same dress from this morning, only now she sported a light cardigan in response to the cooling air. She held a little white bag in front of her that indeed looked as if it sported icing stains. She swung it a bit, looking antsy but not ill at ease. Gold felt himself relaxing in response.

 

She had come back.

 

Gaston’s name sounding like poison on her lips. An equal amount of frustration directed at a previously beloved father. An unlikely new friendship between two girls—though perhaps not so unlikely, given Belle’s penchant for beasts—and talk between them that, apparently, involved him. Of course, there was still the little matter or Belle striking cracks into the curse…

 

Changes were occurring in Storybrooke, questions that needed answering, but for now Gold would let them lie. Belle was here with him, and he’d do anything within his power to keep her there as long as he could.


	6. Chapter 6

Belle watched through the window as Ruby skipped off, casting no less than four worried looks behind her.

 

Her friend’s fear rolled right off her. Ruby had been right about one thing: a mental health day had been exactly what Belle had needed. After visiting Mr. Gold she had bought her cupcakes—now practically inedible—as well as a light lunch. The rest of the day had been spent in the town park, pouring over the book she’d found. Perhaps obsessing over her situation wasn’t the healthiest way to ease her nerves, but Belle had always believed that some of the best comfort came from planning ahead. The more she read the more convinced she became that moving into the library was the right decision. It was, logically speaking, the easiest way to remove herself from what she could identify now as a toxic relationship. No more manipulative fathers. No more overbearing Gastons.

 

Of course, dealing with the emotional consequences of such a decision was something else entirely. Belle may have never loved Gaston, but she certainly loved her dad. His willingness to put his own financial desires above her happiness was a blow not easily healed. It couldn’t be fixed with a new apartment, but the apartment certainly couldn’t hurt.

 

Good food didn’t hurt either. Or a pretty new necklace.

 

Ruby was gone now, but her warnings remained in Belle’s mind. Really, it was ridiculous. So much anxiety about visiting aman, one who literally couldn’t follow her out the door, if Belle ever wanted to run. Which she didn’t. But then, Ruby had long been convinced that Mr. Gold was the fiercest thing that Storybrooke had to offer, barring perhaps Ms. Mills. Belle could see how Mr. Gold might be viewed as… intense. But dangerous? No. At least, certainly not to her.

 

Belle didn’t know how she knew that. She just… did.

 

The man in question was far from threatening now. He stood quietly. Almost, but not quite pressed against the door, staring at her like she was something unique.

 

Given his reputation, as a willing customer she might be just that.

 

“You’re really not comfortable there, are you?” Belle found herself asking, and then cringed. It was a habit of hers, questions popping out before she could review them. She stemmed the impulse to cover her mouth like the bimbos did in novels.

 

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Gold’s stare tightened.

 

“No, _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t really think. I just…” Giving up Belle waved her hand, encompassing the whole of his figure. Mr. Gold gazed bemusedly down at his suit. “Don’t make me say it. You know. You. The door. You’re not exactly besties.”

 

“… besties?” he echoed. Blinked.

 

“You and that door do not get on.” Belle said bluntly, hands on her hips. It was Mr. Gold’s turn to cringe, but it was more of a wary flinch at what was behind him, rather than any true disagreement with her words. Even so, the eyes that rose again to meet hers were a darker brown than they’d previously been. Mr. Gold moved away from the entrance and, incidentally, closer to her.

 

“No, my dear,” he said, advancing. “The door and I do not ‘get on’ as you say. What a brilliant observation. I don’t believe anyone’s noted that before. Imagine that, the reclusive beast not liking _doors._ ”

 

The words were biting, emphasized with each strike of his cane. If Mr. Gold were to come any closer he’d literally be right on top of her. He seemed to realize that too, for his harsh expression wavered a moment and he took a sharp turn to his left. Belle knew he was trying to get around her, back behind the safety of his counter, and she was suddenly determined to keep him exactly where he was. Hardly thinking through her actions, Belle shifted her own weight until Mr. Gold was forced once again to halt before her, his lips pursed.

 

“You’re in the way, dearie,” he growled.

 

“I know.”

 

“Do you? Well then, perhaps you’d be kind enough to move?”

 

“Nope.” Belle shifted again, skipping to block her left side. The ruined cupcake bag came up like a shield. She knew they must look ridiculous, him trying to move nimbly with his bad leg, she hopping to keep ahead of him, and Belle almost started laughing. That is, until she saw his hand moving to grip the middle of his cane, his arm tensing as if to raise it. She didn’t gasp exactly, but whatever sound she made was enough to clear his head. Mr. Gold’s hand moved back to the top of his cane, but he knew what he’d been about to do, and he knew that she knew. The guilty look on his face didn’t excuse his almost-action, but it reassured Belle that, whoever this man was, he was more imperfect man than monster.

 

“Please move, Miss French,” he whispered.

 

“Okay. Sure. But on one condition.”

 

She hadn’t been planning on it, but her words drew a somewhat bitter smile from Mr. Gold. It was better than the guilt.

 

“A deal? Certainly,” and he settled back, already more comfortable at their proximity, so long as it was couched in business.

 

Belle nodded. “I’ll move if you listen to what I have to say.”

 

His eyebrows rose. “I’m listeni—”

 

“No.” Belle held up a hand. “You just did it. _That_. You…” She shrugged. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’ve sorta got selective hearing, Mr. Gold,” and Belle had to hold up another hand to forestall him. “No, seriously. _Listen._ I know I’ve only known you, what, half a day? But I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I can already tell that when people say things to you that you don’t like or don’t believe—” he winced, “—you just… gloss over it. You did it to me earlier today.” Belle spread her arms at his confusion. “I told you at least three times that, yes, I’d come back at 5:00, but you didn’t really get that, did you? You heard me, but you didn’t _hear_ me.”

 

“You came back at 5:17,” he muttered, more petulant than anything else.

 

“And the mere fact that you know the _exact time_ I came in proves that you were watching the clock. You didn’t think I’d come back. Even though I said I would, even though I’d already bought something! That’s… that’s really kind of sad.”

 

Mr. Gold glared at her fiercely.

 

“So I’m going to tell you three things and you will _listen_ to them. You don’t have to… comment or anything, okay? Just listen.” The glare didn’t waver, so Belle took a deep breath and tried not to worry that she’d dug herself in too deep. In her heels she could just look over the top of Mr. Gold’s head and Belle fixed her eyes on the bell at the door.

 

“Right. First off, I get that it’s really none of my business, but it is worrying that no one’s seen you leave this shop. You know, _ever._ So if you’ve tried getting help and it hasn’t worked out… well, that’s something. But if _haven’t_ tried because no one has supported you…” Here, Belle determinedly kept her eyes fixed up. She could feel her back beginning to sweat with embarrassment. “I—I’d support you, Mr. Gold. I really would. If you want to talk about it or seek professional help. There’s always Archie—” She just caught the subtle flinch that passed his features. “Okay. Maybe not. But that’s what I mean. Whatever you need, even if you decide you don’t need—or want—anything from me at all.”

 

Belle plowed ahead.

 

“The second thing is that I’d really like it if you could try and be kinder to Ruby. She’s a friend of mine.” Another wince. “Finally, you’re _not_ a beast, Mr. Gold, and I’d likewise prefer it if you didn’t refer to yourself as such.” Belle nodded firmly, then sighed, relaxing her neck and looking back down at the man before her.

 

“You’re sure about that, are you, my dear?” Mr. Gold’s voice was hoarse, his own eyes fixed firmly on his hands. “So confident that you won’t be hurt by the monster.”

 

“Absolutely.” It was ridiculous, caring so much about a man she’d met formally just hours before. Caring about what he thought of himself, no less. But Mr. Gold looked very small in that moment, and Belle found herself reaching out to squeeze the hand atop his cane. His eyes drifted shut.

 

“I could give you examples of your lack of monstrosity,” she said, “but I feel like we’d end up just standing here, debating it for hours.”

 

As she’d hoped, her comment drew a dry chuckle. “It would indeed, my dear, and we have other business to attend to.” He drew away, reluctantly it seemed, and Belle let him go. She moved aside and let him move back behind the counter, his steps becoming lighter the further he got from the door. It wasn’t as if she expected him to comment on her other points. Belle had no illusions about “fixing” Mr. Gold, but she was glad her support was out in the open. Maybe one day he’d take her up on it.

 

“Come,” he beckoned her closer, pulling out a box and tissue from underneath the counter. Then, from his pocket came the rose necklace, as beautiful as it had been in the early morning sunlight. Mr. Gold let it catch on his wrist as he began preparing the box. Belle tossed her ruined cupcakes in the newly emptied trash and went to join him.

 

“What happened to, ‘I need the day to clean and wrap it’?” She teased. Belle gently poked the rose and watched it swing along the cuff of his suit. “That doesn’t look wrapped to me.”

 

“I am sorry. The summer season, you know. Terribly busy.” They lapsed into silence; each comfortable in the knowledge of why he _really_ hadn’t wrapped it. Mr. Gold was more than twice her age, no doubt he viewed her only as some silly little girl, but Belle found herself blushing lightly at the thought of him plotting; thinking up numerous, excusable ways that he might get her to stay just a few minutes longer. It was more attention than Gaston had paid her in all their years of knowing one another.

 

“You know,” Belle said. “I do really love a lot of these pieces. Perhaps you could help me. I may be furnishing a small apartment soon.”

 

Mr. Gold jerked, tearing the tissue a bit. Quickly, he drew a breath and resumed folding.

 

“Is that so?” He murmured. “I was under the impression that you lived with your father.”

 

“I do… did…” Belle shook her head. “What I mean is, I might be moving out soon—”

 

“Would this be because of young Gaston?” Mr. Gold gave up the pretense of wrapping. He met her stare, both palms flat on the counter. He necklace gave a small _ting_ as it hit the wood. Belle felt her eyes narrowing.

 

“You were listening,” she accused.

 

“Small shop, dearie. Hard not to.”

 

“Oh please. Don’t pretend that anything you do here is accidental.” Belle deliberately eyed her unwrapped necklace. “You were interested.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Despite it all, Belle greatly appreciated the honesty. She’d be lying if she claimed that such attention wasn’t flattering. Either that, or Belle had to concede that this was merely evidence of Mr. Gold’s desperation for company; any company, even hers.

 

But Belle didn’t think so little of herself, and Mr. Gold didn’t seem the desperate type.

 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to listen at doors?” she said, allowing her teasing tone to sneak through.

 

“On the contrary. My father encouraged it and my mother wasn’t around to say otherwise.” Mr. Gold drew one finger along the counter. “Come, Miss French, you’ve spent a great deal of time today dissecting me; my faults and neuroses. Surely you can even the playing field just a bit by telling me what trouble is brewing between you and Gaston?” His teeth cinched along the name.

 

Belle hesitated.

 

“It may help,” he added softly. “To tell another.”

 

“I’ve already told Ruby,” but the excuse sounded small even to Belle’s ears. She sighed, resting her arms on the counter and her chin on her arms. Her nose was just a breath from Mr. Gold’s twitching fingers. They smelled of polish.

 

“It’s a long and complicated tale, Mr. Gold.” She said with a sigh. “But the foundation is one you can find in lots of good stories: Man has daughter. Man loves daughter. However, the man also loves his wealth… whenever he can maintain it, that is.” Belle sneered just a little. “Luckily for him he knows an incredibly rich family who just happens to have a son of marriageable age—enter Gaston. Not so luckily for the man, his daughter wants nothing to do with this boy and he is _very much_ a _boy_.” She gave a little huff. “Cue conflict. How will the story be resolved? I’m of the personal opinion that the daughter will walk away from them both and fix up her own little place somewhere. Maybe she’ll even get some help from the local pawnbroker.”

 

Belle looked up, half expecting Mr. Gold to be scoffing at her story, but he only nodded.

 

“No one decides your fate but you,” he said and Belle felt as if she’d taken a punch to the gut.

 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Exactly.”

 

Mr. Gold nodded again and went back to his wrapping. Considering that he’d been attempting this task all day her necklace was packaged away remarkably quickly. “I applaud your independence,” he said simply, handing her the box. “I would also be honored if you would return for that furniture.”

 

“Just the furniture?” Mr. Gold’s instant and unfailing understanding made Belle bold. It made her want to test him; see what other parts of her he might instinctually pick up on. “What if I want tea? Or someone else to complain to?” she pushed.

 

“I have a kettle in the back, Miss French, and two working ears, old as they may be.”

 

Mr. Gold came out from behind the counter. His shadow was cast long upon the floor, the fading sun playing with the colors of the shop. Belle had been there longer than she’d thought.

 

“I like honey in my tea,” she said stupidly. Oddly, Belle focused in on Mr. Gold’s lips and for just a second she thought he was forming ‘I know’ in response… but then they twisted upwards into a smile.

 

“I have honey,” he said instead.

 

“Great.”

 

Belle dithered. The sun was setting, she should be cold, but she shrugged off her cardigan and draped it over one arm. “Cookies?”

 

“I can get some. If you’d like.”

 

“Great.” Hadn’t she already said that? Mr. Gold’s smile was tugging into what looked suspiciously like a grin.

 

“Would you perhaps care for something with chocolate?” he asked. “Dark, I should think, or perhaps with a bit of mint.” He _did_ grin then as Belle’s jaw dropped open.

 

“How did you—?”

 

“I’m also an excellent judge of character, Miss French.” Mr. Gold crowded her, intentionally or not leading her towards the door. When they reached the patch where the last bit of sun was sneaking in, Belle halted. She knew, as sure as she knew her own name, that Mr. Gold was used to this: to throwing people off their guard and herding them out while he maintained the last word. Belle didn’t want to be interchangeable with ‘people.’ Not with him.

 

So at first she thought wickedly, horribly, of trying to tempt him out the door, before Belle mentally slapped herself. She could already feel him tensing at her back with each step that brought him nearer to the exit.

 

Something else then.

 

Before she could think better of it Belle turned, her dress flaring out to whip against Mr. Gold’s legs. She tore the top off the box, ripping bits of tissue paper as she went, and, much more gently, pulled her necklace back into the open air.

 

“Put it on?” she asked. Belle didn’t give him the chance to say no, but turned again and pulled her hair over one shoulder.

 

There was a dense silence in the pawnshop, broken only by the disjointed ticking of many clocks. Finally, after Belle had nearly caved twice, she spotted his hand sneaking near to her waist and she blushed, realizing that she hadn’t handed the necklace over. It changed hands and then Belle felt the tang of metal against her collarbone, crossing her eyes to watch it settle. Mr. Gold hardly touched her, but when he did his skin felt vaguely rough, deceptively so given how soft it appeared. Belle thought of impish creatures with green-gold scales and clenched down on a laugh. She’d read too many fairy tales and Mr. Gold’s ‘monster’ comment had undoubtedly made an impression.

 

“There,” he said.

 

Belle turned once more, wanting to catch his expression, but Mr. Gold’s face was now firmly in shadow. He’d hooked his cane over one arm to have both hands free and he took it up now, seemingly wanting something to fiddle with.

 

“How do I look?” she encouraged. He hesitated.

 

“Would you find me presumptuous if I said, ‘like perfection’?”

 

The shop was fantastically dark now and it mellowed Belle to this man who, really, _was_ quite presumptuous. She’d only known him a day. Yet there was also something terribly flattering in that he believed he was looking at “perfection.” Pushing worries of her own naivety aside, Belle decided to smile.

 

“Not at all,” she assured him.

 

“Perfection, then.”

 

Belle knew it would happen even before she saw Mr. Gold move, so she allowed her hand to gently be taken up, a light kiss brushing against her knuckles. He released her immediately, but brought her hand down low before dropping it. A good thing too, given how loose her arm felt.

 

“You’ll come back?” he asked.

 

“Would you believe me if I say yes?”

 

“…Perhaps.”

 

“Why?” Why did she care?

 

“Because you’ve kept that promise before.”

 

Belle nodded. “Then I’ll come back.”

 

All major areas of the shop were black now, but Belle could still see Mr. Gold swallowing, a darker shadow passing across his throat. Belle could feel the newly lit street lamps against her back and she let them guide her fully to the door. Mr. Gold came no closer.

 

“Tomorrow,” Belle promised and fled.


	7. Chapter 7

_Minutes after healing her, while Belle slept, Rumpelstiltskin moved through the Dark Castle—a storm of magic and physical rage. Everything that emanated power was suppressed and even if that hadn’t been his intention, anything with the smallest of magical consciousness shied from him instinctually. Stalking his own halls he was currently a beast both powerful and confused, a dangerous combination if ever there was one._

_He couldn’t—_ wouldn’t— _admit why, but Rumpelstiltskin understood that now his little maid was not to be harmed. Not by him and certainly not by his castle (_ again _—and his claws tore into a nearby tapestry.) Rumpelstiltskin decided then and there that the majority of these rooms didn’t need cleaning—stupid, useless reasoning—and so they were safely locked up, barricaded from the girl with a quick wit and curious hands. The doors swept shut as he passed them, some reverberating with such force that it shook the castle’s foundation, even seeped in magic as it was. For a moment Rumpelstiltskin hoped it would fall, crumble into dust that he could toss on Belle’s fire. Watch his mistakes burn while she warmed her hands._

_Everything else deemed even remotely dangerous was nullified: artifacts were bound in hard chains of dragon’s scales or banished from the castle completely. Any potions not currently brewing were locked away under charm and key. The suits of armor were ordered to remain still, the paintings silenced, any and all portals were secured in an instant. Rumpelstiltskin took the main staircase up to the second floor and as he did he cast barrier charms around the banister. Knowing her, young Belle would find a way to topple over and break her pretty little neck._

_Storage on the second floor faded until it was undetectable to those who did not possess his eyes. Some rooms on the third floor vanished completely. Rumpelstiltskin recalled the highly sought after prizes he’d piled on a nearby bed: unicorn hair, cupid’s discarded bow (even celestial wood warps after too many lifetimes), stolen pixie dust, what might or might not be the tears of a mermaid who’d once loved a man… rare objects indeed. It was only with the smallest curse that Rumpelstiltskin banished them to the far corners of this realm. Let others hunt for them. The last boy who had came looking for a wand might have shot Belle. (And he ignored the fact that her breast was unmarred. That the robbery had, instead, lead to a hug. The first in nigh three hundred years.)_

_Rumpelstiltskin neared the room where Belle now slept, wrapped in creams and layers of bandages. He tiptoed, though there was little chance that she would wake so early in the healing process. Nevertheless, in his attempts to keep quiet, even while he shook endlessly with rage (at himself, at his assumptions, at the girls’ ability to change them, at the bloody castle beneath his feet) Rumpelstiltskin leant one curled hand against the wall for balance. Mere feet from Belle he felt cold stone beneath his palm and his mind tauntingly called up images of cells, of girls crying into magically summoned pillows. With a growl that belied his intent to keep quiet, Rumpelstiltskin dropped to his knees, pounded once on the floor, and the dungeon two stories below was obliterated._

_The only room he didn’t change was the library. He passed it by, trying not to think that books, filled with knowledge, were the most dangerous things here. But he trudged forward, determined not to touch what was no longer his._

_His lab was another matter. There was too much and most of it pertained to Bae. Remnants of a spinner’s life, miniscule fragments from other worlds… these things were not the paltry collectibles of a bored sorcerer, and they were not so easily disposed of. It was with some of that genuine regret that Rumpelstiltskin built new wards around the doorway, designed to keep all magical properties in and human girls out. No more unexpected offers of tea, or foolish excuses to have her near. She had to stay out. At least then she’d be safe._

_Even as he wove layer upon layer of magic, Rumpelstiltskin knew that he wouldn’t be spending much time in his lab._

_***_

_The actual cause of her damage was trickier to manipulate and when Rumpelstiltskin realized that he could no longer simply tear down that curse he took his old staff to a collection of vials, smashing those instead. Feeling more hollow than calm, he nevertheless gathered enough control to visit Belle. Twisting beneath the sheets, Rumpelstiltskin took her arms through the covers—he would not touch her skin, not now—and gently coaxed her into drinking more perfumed drugs. Belle didn’t need it, her restlessness was a normal reaction to her body repairing itself, but it looked too much like she was in pain._

_It was only when a shadow crossed her brow that Rumpelstiltskin realized that the sun was setting. Hours had passed while he sat. Staring. It was only the knowledge that there was more to be done that drove him back to his feet. Better to actively protect Belle rather than passively guard her bedside._

_The only true question was what object to use—something she already owned? Something neutral? Perhaps even… something of his? That idea was quickly discarded though, accompanied by a bitter scowl. It took another hour for Rumpelstiltskin to find it. Back up in his tower he avoided the mess in the middle of the room, created by a girl falling from a great height and writhing amongst fragile glass… Rumpelstiltskin retreated, unknowingly choosing the window that Belle had attempted to close as his refuge. He looked out and his gaze fell upon the roses._

_There was little deliberation. They were perfect. A fixture of the castle, already imbued with a drop of magic that kept them blooming in winter. More importantly, there was a connection between the roses and Belle, for Rumpelstiltskin, in either whimsy or foolishness, had cut a bundle for their table. Belle had smelled them and then insisted on tending them, claiming that nothing could live on magic alone._

_Down the steps, through the hall, and they were there still. Rumpelstiltskin growled at the vase. He needed only one bulb and it felt as if there should be one flower better than the others… but of course they were all the same. Thanks to his power they were all equally beautiful, but he couldn’t just choose one at random. Eventually, Rumpelstiltskin snatched the rose that faced the table’s back left-hand corner—where she’d broken a teacup, where later she’d bumped her hip and, gloriously, allowed him to heal the bruise, his claw warming the satin of her dress…_

_It was as good a choice as any. Even so, when that bulb was safely in his hands Rumpelstiltskin rotted the other flowers, watching as they liquefied and filled the vase with muck._

_Crafting the talisman took time. It was longer than Rumpelstiltskin wished to stray from Belle, but again, the active was more useful to her now than the passive. And this was not the kind of delicate work to be done in a sickroom. So Rumpelstiltskin was patient. He spun the thousands of threads of magic, weaving them around the rose, condensing it, allowing it to solidify in an entirely new way, and, of course, telling it what to do:_

Let her out. Not just ‘her;’ Belle. Only Belle. Let her walk freely to the gate, but no further. Let her out. Let her far, not so far, just far enough. Let her out—

 

_When he was done Rumpelstiltskin pulled strands from his own head, braiding them into a strong chain. Holding the rose up by its clasp—truly complete now—Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t entirely convince himself that the beauty of the charm had been an accident._

_It was beyond dark now, far closer to dawn than to dusk. Rumpelstiltskin returned to Belle and breathed easier when she was once again in his sights. He had no desire to look on her injuries (not again) so he took a seat by the fire and no sooner had his feet stretched towards the flames then Belle moaned._

_Rumpelstiltskin froze._

_It hadn’t just been a moan, but his name, the second half trailing into a hum as Belle’s lips failed her. It was muddled by sleep… but_ there _._

_Rumpelstiltskin really was frozen. If she moaned in terror of him he would leave, his own needs be damned. He could tend her wounds from afar. She need never see him again. A queen in her castle, deluded into thinking that she served a master but no, for he was_ her _silent slave. He would leave her, should she wish it, and yet…_

_She hadn’t sounded scared._

_“Rumpel…”_

_There. Again. Belle arched, clearly in imaginary pain, but her voice held pleading. Not for mercy, but for help. Rescue. Rumpelstiltskin knew the difference in tone. He’d heard it in a thousand deals from a thousand different lips. He had harmed her today and yet, could Belle possibly…?_

_Rumpelstiltskin approached the bed on watery legs, hardly acknowledging his own daring. His claw trembled as he placed it over her brow._

_“Rest easy, Belle,” he said. “I’m here.”_

_“Rumpel.” Belle sighed. She stilled. Her voice spoke of peace now and Rumpelstiltskin’s trembling increased._

_He allowed himself only a few heartbeats to touch her, just long enough that Belle, astoundingly, sank into a deeper sleep. He had no excuse then and Rumpelstiltskin forced himself to draw away._

_It was with a cry very near to a sob that he brought out the necklace, tearing one of the magic threads from its makeup. It was the one that would stop Belle at the gate. His gift had new orders now:_

Let her out. Not just ‘her’; only Belle. Let her walk freely to the gate and past its bars. All the way to the farthest field, to the mountains, to the sea. Let her out. Let her be free. Let her out—

_When Belle woke he would lie and tell her that she was still a prisoner. He was too much of a coward to do anything less. Rumpelstiltskin reseated himself by the fire and thought about the best way to craft this lie, nearly as intricate as the gift itself. He resolutely did not think about what he’d do if Belle decided to test the veracity of his words._

_But the months passed. Belle took the necklace, her wounds healed, and she never wandered farther than the roses. That is, until he handed her a basket and asked for more straw. Did it ever occur to her that the necklace she wore shouldn’t have allowed her to leave? When she—voluntarily!—came back through his gate, didn’t she ever wonder? Question? Between the time when he turned his back on her and when she was (wasn’t) killed, did it ever occur to Belle that she could have escaped him whenever she wished?_

_It was one of the countless questions that haunted Rumpelstiltskin in the years to come._

_But for now, there was little to do but wait._


	8. Chapter 8

Belle took her time walking back to the diner. Storybrooke was always quiet at night, with everyone knowing exactly where they needed to be and exactly when they needed to be there. With the school children home and most shops closing down, the only real noise emanated from the few restaurants serving dinner—Granny’s included. The rest of the street was deserted, the quiet feeding the slightly maudlin state that Belle had found in Gold’s shop.

 

Had he really kissed her hand? Yes. Would she have kissed him fully if he’d allowed it? Quite possibly. Belle was hardly promiscuous, what with Gaston being the only available partner (and that was a ‘relationship’ that had gone nowhere fast. She’d made sure of it). But there was something about Mr. Gold that seemed… familiar. Safe. Despite the fact that she’d literally only known him a day…

 

Belle scowled.

If she were honest with herself she had to admit that these feelings of “safety” were just a little too convenient. Here she was, a young woman who’d just been told by her father to marry the town oaf or—as implied—get out. So she was getting out. Then, during her time of emotional vulnerability: cue the refined gentleman who not only gave her the respect she’d sorely been lacking, but whose status as town monster appealed to her sense of adventure—or at least as much adventure that could be found in a place like Storybrooke. Was it any wonder that Belle suddenly felt “safe” with Mr. Gold?

 

She shook her head. Best to put him from her mind, at least for tonight. There were other things that needed doing.

 

Walking into Granny’s was more of a relief than Belle would have thought. As always there was a decent crowed, gathered in the booths and at the counter for dinner. The heat was on in preparation for an early fall, the smell of food was greasy and delicious, loud conversations assaulted her ears and Belle shook off the day’s strangeness. She felt as if she were waking from a dream.

 

“Belle!” Ruby gave a wave, currently engaged in scooping out a chocolate milkshake. Belle wondered briefly who was ordering a frosty drink for their meal before the glass was given to Leroy. Grumpy he may have been, but the man had a sweet tooth that would rival young Henry’s.

 

Belle had resigned herself to finding a seat—perhaps ordering a milkshake herself. Really, she deserved it on today of all days—but she was surprised to see Ruby wiping her hands and tugging off her apron. Granny took her spot behind the counter. She nodded in Belle’s direction, perhaps more solemnly than usual. Before Belle could respond in kind Ruby had grabbed her sweater, her purse, and was hauling them out the door.

 

“Granny gave me the night off,” she breathed. “Can you believe it? I mean, I bet you can.” Her eyes flew over Belle, like an army doctor checking for wounds. “What with everything going on, she thought you could use the support tonight.”

 

“Thank her for me?” Belle said, but Ruby only nodded distractedly.

 

“Uh huh. I’ll thank her. Sure thing, girl. Pleasantries are over now, Belle. What the hell was going on between you and Gold earlier today?” Suddenly Ruby’s eyes narrowed and on instinct Belle’s hand flew to the necklace now resting at her collarbone. “So you _did_ buy that!”

 

“Ruby, I’ll explain. I _swear._ ” Belle held up both hands to hold her friend off. “Just… later okay? No seriously, listen. I’m staying at your place tonight, right?”

 

Ruby blinked. “Yeah. Thought we’d worked that out.” Her expression twisted upwards into a scowl. “You sure as hell aren’t staying at your dad’s.”

 

“Great, but I do need to head back there first.”

 

“No you don’t!”

 

“I do.” Belle wrapped her hands around her waist, trying to ward off the increasing chill. Her dress had been wonderful early this morning when the sun was shining, but now cotton just wasn’t cutting it. Ruby stamped her feet, trying to get some warmth into her own bare legs. “I haven’t got anything—clothes, toiletries—”

 

“You can borrow some of mine.”

 

“My _books_ —”

 

Ruby’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t I tell you to buy books today? I did, didn’t I? But nooooo. Belle French goes off and gets cozy with the town pariah.”

 

“Ruby…”

 

“Alright, alright, I hear you. Quick stop by your dad’s place, fervent hope that he’s still in the shop?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

“Then you tell me _everything_ that went on with Mr. Gold.” Ruby’s tone brooked no argument.

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Okay then.” They linked arms, starting to amble back down the street towards Belle’s house. Hopefully soon to be ex-house, she thought.

 

“You’d look weird in my clothes anyway.” Ruby said. They moved closer together to block out the wind. “Steaming hot, but weird.”

 

Belle waved her hand before them like an announcer presenting his show. “See Belle French, everyone! Storybrooke’s most well-read call girl!”

 

“Nah,” Ruby giggled. “You need a stage name!”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like… Lacey.”

 

“Lacey??”

 

“Yeah,” and they laughed. “Racy Lacey!”

 

***

 

The laughter died the closer they got to Belle’s house.

 

‘House.’ That was the word that came to mind. Not ‘home.’ Amazing what a few hours—just one day—could change. Her father had actually been one of the richer residents of Storybrooke, next to the Mayor and Mr. Gold. Belle was surprised to find that she could still see that former wealth, hidden beneath their recent hardship: fine trimmings that had slowly begun to rot, large windowpanes that needed cleaning, a twisting driveway that hadn’t been repaved in who knew how many years. The only part of the property that still gleamed was the garden, and Belle knew that was only because her father hadn’t been able to sell those flowers in his own shop. The whole image screamed of deception.

 

“You okay?” Ruby murmured. Belle must have been sighing just a bit too hard.

 

“Yeah. Just wondering if things would have been different if Dad hadn’t spent his money on all this.” Belle swept her hands out, encompassing it all. “Stupid things. For... for... reputation, I guess. Things we just didn’t need. Doesn’t help that flowers aren’t exactly a lucrative business.”

 

Ruby shrugged. “Weddings, birthdays, funerals, dates...”

 

“And how many of those do we get around here?”

 

“... Point.”

 

They walked in silence the rest of the way, Belle feeling oddly solemn. As one they passed up the drive through the flowerbeds and then veered to the left. They’d done this before. Belle silently signaled to Ruby who nodded, leaning casually against the house as Belle kicked off her shoes. Within seconds she was toeing up the side of the trellis, careful not to pull out the ivy, inching towards her open window.

 

They really had done this before, more times than Belle could count. In fact, this was as much a staple of her routine as anything else: wake, breakfast, open the library, lunch with Ruby, afternoon filing, meet up at the diner, climb the trellis, and sneak out whatever she needed for a night out—away from her dad’s company. Now, this similar yet distinct deviation from her routine was... thrilling. Far more so than the changes early this morning, when over her normal toast and jam her dad had announced an engagement, of all ridiculous things. So far as Belle was concerned, she needn’t see nor speak to her dad in the near future. She certainly didn’t need to see Gaston.

 

Which was really too bad, considering that he was seated on her bed.

 

“Wait!” He cried at spotting her. Not that Belle was going anywhere. She had half her body pulled through the window, hanging, her mouth open and gaping like a fish.

 

“Belle?” She heard Ruby say from below.

 

Gaston stood. “Wait,” he said again, softly, and... softly? When had Gaston ever spoken softly?

 

Loud, brash, arrogant, assertive—a big-mouthed dimwit who thought he was better than half the community and simply better looking than the rest. That was Gaston. Not the fidgeting man who stood before her, head bowed and peeking up at her through his hair. Belle dared to take one hand off the windowsill to rub at her eyes.

 

“You’re in my bedroom.” She accused. Faintly though. It seemed more a technicality than anything else.

 

Gaston shrugged. “Your father is out.”

 

“The shop? Working?” Please let him be working.

 

“Drinking.”

 

Dammit. “You don’t have a key.”

 

“No one locks their doors in Storybrooke. Except Mr. Gold.” Suddenly, a familiar disgust and haughtiness entered his voice and he was the old Gaston once more. Just as quick though it fell away and left a man looking almost... concerned? “Belle, please, would you just come inside?”

 

“You ruined my book.”

 

Belle wasn’t sure where that complaint had come from, but it was true enough. Last week— just a week before her father’s announcement—Belle had been returning from the library, book in hand, hurrying along much like this morning, as engaged in Austen as she’d been in the town’s property records. Eyes down and practically jogging, Belle had run head first into a telephone pole. At least, what she’d _thought_ was a telephone pole. It turned out to be Gaston’s bicep.

 

He’d been lazing about with Lefou and a cluster of other boys whose names Belle had never bothered to learn. They’d been huddled close together—but never too close of course—trading exaggerated stories, trading crude jokes… a normal end of the day for them too. The fact that Belle had been hurrying just a little farther inward on the sidewalk than usual and Gaston had been standing just a little further out… that was accidental. What wasn’t was Gaston’s cry of ‘Freak!’ and the shove he’d given Belle seconds after. She’d never liked the man, but in that moment Belle had realized that Gaston could be not just infuriating, but _cruel_.

 

He was not a man that Belle could ever love.

 

A week later she learned that she was to marry him.

 

Now, Belle finally crawled through the window, glaring all the while. Without a group to back him up, Gaston practically withered under her stare.

 

“Last week,” he muttered despairingly.

 

“Last week,” Belle agreed. “Torn dress, skinned knee, and my favorite book soaked in mud.”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” Gaston was vibrating now, taking quick, tentative steps towards Belle before jumping away. It was hard for Belle to focus on what he was saying. She’d never seen him like this…

 

“I really didn’t mean to,” Gaston said again. “I mean… I did… sort of… I didn’t _want_ to. I had to!” Gaston gripped his hair at Belle’ reaction to that. “It’s just… an act. Acting! You’ve read about acting in some of these books, haven’t you?” He gestured wildly at the surrounding shelves. “That’s all it was. Is. The guys. My da—” Gaston cut himself off, swallowing.

 

“Only acting,” he said, pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to shove you that hard. I didn’t know there was mud in those weeds! The guys just wanted a laugh!”

 

“‘ _Just_ ,’” Belle echoed. Dimly, she could hear Ruby hissing questions mixed with obscenities, threatening to come up there herself. Belle shook her head sharply. “‘Only.’ Gaston, if you think peer pressure is going to endear me to you and get me to marry you—”

 

“I don’t want to marry you, I want to marry Lefou!”

 

Silence.

 

Crickets. Literal ones that Belle could hear out in the garden.

 

Then Belle’s mouth dropped open at the same moment Gaston slapped a hand over his, eyes wide as saucers—wide with regret. They stared at once another in continued, shocked silence until Belle felt like she could breathe again. When movement was possible she lunged for the window, leaning out as far as she dared.

 

“Ruby,” Belle cried. “Get your butt up here. Now!”

 

***

 

Ruby flipped idly through one of Belle’s books. She slammed it shut and thunked her head repeatedly against the cover.

 

“Could this day get any weirder.”

 

It wasn’t really a question. Still.

 

“With our luck…” Belle said.

 

“Stop.”

 

“This _is_ Storybrooke,” Gaston said and at that Belle closed her eyes. Because yes, this was Storybrooke, the town that was always strange while always managing to stay exactly the same. Yet here was Belle’s life, suddenly turned upside down in so many ways, in only so many hours—pulling Ruby through the window, corralling Gaston into the corner, they’d managed to get an explanation out of him that might have resembled sense, if one peered closely enough.

 

Apparently, Belle wasn’t quite as observant as she sometimes prided herself in being. Gaston’s behavior over the years (years?) had been just that, a behavior, picked up and worn when it best suited him. In truth, Belle knew more about Gaston from rumor than she did from any conversation they’d had. (Even if sometimes, in the very dead of night, a nagging part of Belle whispered that they’d known each other far longer than it seemed).

 

When she thought about it, Belle realized that she’d never really seen Gaston outside of his pack, and by extension their influence. She’d certainly never seen him outside the company of Lefou. Lefou, who was distinguishable by only two characteristics: his height (comparable only to the Leroy brothers) and his loyalty to Gaston. ‘Sidekick’ wasn’t quite an appropriate term now. Not when Gaston and Lefou had apparently been going steady behind the elementary school bleachers for ages.

 

“You’re lucky you weren’t caught,” Belle had said.

 

“Lucky Mary Margaret didn’t catch you,” Ruby had countered and yeah, fair enough.

 

Storybrooke was admittedly old fashioned, seeming to court only men and women together, if there was even anyone available to date (no one seemed to move in, no one seemed to move out, and wasn’t that just strange?) It wasn’t that two men would be frowned upon, but it would be different, _new_ , and Storybrooke didn’t do well with new.

 

One thing was clear: this marriage hadn’t been Gaston’s idea.

 

“My father,” Gaston groused.

 

“ _My_ father,” Belle shot right back.

 

“He’ll hear nothing about Lefou. Even more than connections and finances, he wants me with someone beautiful. ‘The most beautiful girl in town,’ I think he called you. And you are.” Gaston shrugged. “You’re just… not what I want.”

 

Indeed, and despite the sudden change, Gaston wasn’t what Belle wanted either. A trophy partner—that’s all they could ever be to each other. Belle needed agency, but also companionship; adventure, and someone who could challenge her intellect. Someone like…

 

“Who gave you _that_?”

 

Belle realized she’d been fiddling with her necklace, tracing the petals again and again. She dropped her hand.

 

“Gold,” she said.

 

“Real gold? Nice.”

 

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, pretty sure it’s real, but she means _Gold_. With a capital ‘G.’ As in, Mr. Gold gave it to her.”

 

Gaston’s mouth opened as if on a hinge. He’d never looked more the beautiful buffoon.

 

“You bought from _him_?”

 

“With my own money no less,” Ruby said. “That’s not all she did though. You’re lucky you’re not actually fighting for her, bub, because our innocent Belle here was chatting Gold up something fierce.”

 

“ _What!_ ”

 

“You two act like he’s your personal Judas,” Belle snapped. “What did he ever do to you?”

 

“Made me clean up unspeakables and launder his unmentionables.” But Ruby held up her hands at Belle’s look.

 

Really, Belle wasn’t sure why she was defending Mr. Gold so vehemently. She’d quite literally only known him a day. But there was a potent combination at work: Belle’s promise to never judge based on hearsay, her pity for a man so long isolated, and the fact that she just plain liked him. Mr. Gold was witty, charming, unexpectedly generous in his dealings with her. He’d given Belle a necklace that was no doubt worth several hundreds more than what she’d paid for it. A beautiful necklace, one that made her feel… safe. _Safe_. That was the only word Belle could find to accurately describe this sense she’d had, ever since she’d walked out his door, gold draped across her neck like a talisman.

 

Even beyond his gift, Belle couldn’t deny that she found Mr. Gold… well, attractive. Older, but airing on the side of ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘unavailable.’ He was lean, impeccably dressed, possessing a grace all his own—because of, not in spite of, the cane.

 

Belle thought back to his expression in the darkening shop, his voice rough, inching ever closer, his fingers brushing feather-light against the back of her neck, his lips against her knuckles… and Belle knew she was heating up right before Ruby and Gaston’s eyes.

 

“He’s nice,” she finally said, weakly, and oh god they were still staring.

 

It couldn’t be possible, right? That her rejection of Gaston occurred on the same day Belle became… interested? Surely that only happened in stories. Yet if Belle were honest with herself, that feeling she had that she knew Gaston better than she should… it was a thousand times stronger with Mr. Gold.

 

“We need that meeting.” Ruby muttered, startling Belle out of her thoughts. She clapped her hands sharply. “Right, so the not-couple finally has something they agree on: both your dads are dicks when it comes to romance. And there will be no marriage. Hey, that’s two things! So glad we had this talk. Belle—” Ruby grabbed the nearest container (a tote from the library already coming apart at the seams) and began throwing random articles of clothing into it.

 

Gaston turned to Belle. “We’ll tell them no,” he said forcibly, exhibiting more passion than Belle would have ever guessed he possessed.

 

“Yes. We’ll tell them no.”

 

“And—” Gaston swallowed. “Gold really gave you that?”

 

“… Yes.”

 

“It’s pretty,” he said and for just a second Belle sensed desire. Not the kind either of them truly wanted to pursue, but something quicker, undefined, like out of a dream: just a man looking at a beautiful woman who he didn’t realize was quite so generous, and a woman looking back at a beautiful man, one she didn’t realize was quite so kind. Desire of another sort.

 

Between them Ruby sighed.

 

“Gaston, you’re still an ass. Gold is still a creep. Belle, we’re leaving.”

 

“‘Kay.”

 

Silently, Belle followed Ruby back out through the window. She paused though, stomach against the edge, bare toes intertwining with ivy, suddenly remembering why she’d come. Belle had a feeling she wouldn’t be returning to this room—not for a long while at least—not after tonight. She needed something different.

 

Briefly, an image of a castle popped into her head and Belle nearly laughed out loud. Stones and spires? She was moving into a library. Hardly palace material.

 

Shaking her head, Belle’s eyes landed on her room’s addition.

 

“Gaston?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Good luck with Lefou.”

 

“… Thanks.”

 

“And get the hell out of my room.”

 

***

 

Back on the pavement, shoes slipping from her heels, Belle ran to catch up with Ruby, sauntering ahead.

 

“Don’t want to hear it!” Ruby called, raising a hand. She twiddled her fingers at Belle. “This night has been wild, even by my standards. I need a drink before you say anything else.”

 

There was a lot Belle wanted to say, like how she couldn’t believe all that had happened either. Or how Ruby couldn’t go spouting this information off to Granny—not without Gaston’s permission. A part of Belle even wanted to point out how fierce Ruby looked in that moment: long legs in a short skirt. Prowling the streets, like a predator hunting for prey.

 

The night’s cold was what dominated though—as did the blank space around Belle’s waist—so what she actually said was,

 

“I left my sweater at Gold’s.”

 

Slowly, almost comically, Ruby turned to give Belle a rather ‘are-you-f***ing-serious’ look. Belle shrugged sheepishly.

 

“How about I deliver his breakfast in the morning?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_There was a lull of days for Belle. Between when her body was uncomfortably swathed in bandages and when she was fully healed, where she was able to just lay about, far more reminiscent of the princess she was rather than the maid she’d become. Legs stretching beneath silk sheets, hair carefully combed across her pillow, a mischievous candle that flickered beside her, the warmth from the fire, a leather bound book for her to read… (Telling the story of a young girl who foolishly—but fully—falls for the monster, hiding in the moors of her kingdom. Belle focused on the language of the novel, threw herself into the romance, and tried not to think too hard)._

_Her setting was in many ways magical, and Belle was just thinking selfishly that all she needed was some food when Rumplestiltskin barged in with a tray._

_He well and truly barged in, stumbling through the door rather than appearing in his normal cloud of smoke. Belle was so startled she dropped her book. Rumplestiltskin was so startled (really? By what?) that he nearly dropped the tray. A quick flick of his wrist and a spurt of magic set things right, ensuring that a second later food and drink were floating in midair, spared a nasty fall. Belle watched them dangle and felt a flash of pain… strings… she tried to smile. Firmly, Belle watched the cream pour itself back into a saucer._

_“Good morning,” she said._

_“… It’s afternoon.” Rumplestiltskin muttered and he hurried to the fire._

_“Oh.”_

_That was certainly possible. The only window in this room hung above Belle’s head and though her scalp could feel the steady breeze, the squares of sunlight across the bed appeared no stronger now than when she’d woken hours before. When Belle had first arrived at the castle, the weather had seemed permanently dreary—rain with a side of wind. Now there was nothing but sunlight… despite her employer’s seemingly foul mood._

_Belle did wonder why that was._

_She turned her own gaze towards the fire, smiling for real this time. She heaved herself into a better seating position—not missing the flick of yellow eyes her way—and settled, one hand fiddling with her new necklace._

_“Planning to share any of that?”_

_The renewed heat of the room, her own, silly question—it all made Belle want to laugh. Of course the food was for her. Who else was there? Rumplestiltskin had sent a tray up three times a day for the last five. The only difference was he’d never brought it personally before._

_In fact, Belle hadn’t seen Rumplestiltskin since their… talk._

_She clasped the necklace harder._

_“Well?”_

_Rumplestiltskin was crouched before the fire. Belle could see his bent back, hear the creaking of his boots. She watched in awe as he pulled flames forward and mixed them into the tea, rewarming it._

_“It’s all for you, dearie.” His voice finally wound around her. “Though I wouldn’t mind a bite or two. No maid to cook for me right now. Isn’t it sad? The Dark One might well starve, and wouldn’t that please the kingdoms…”_

_Rumplestiltskin’s now familiar giggle shot across the room, but it bore a strain that Belle had never heard before. She was no fool. Belle knew her accident had hit him hard—regardless of his claims of monstrosity. The proof was in his avoidance and now in his equally telling refusal to look her way._

_“Then why don’t we share it?”_

_The question flew out of Belle before she could possibly think it through. Well. It was out now, quite free. She watched Rumplestiltskin’s shoulders seize, felt herself swallow, then plowed ahead._

_“Come on. Before it gets cold again.”_

_He rose, looking almost compelled, and the tray of food followed him with the same level of suspicious fear. Rumplestiltskin shuffled over and stood at the threshold of her bed until Belle gestured gently to the seat beside her._

_He sat._

_They’d never eaten together before. It hit Belle suddenly, making her smile even wider. There’d been the week of imprisonment, when Belle had taken all her meals down in a dungeon and Rumplestiltskin, she was now sure, ate nothing at all. Then she’d cooked for him, what little she knew how. She’d brought a plate of food up for him one afternoon, opened the window, and…_

_Here they were._

_“Peaches,” Rumplestiltskin said. His voice cut awkwardly into the silence; his hands fluttered nervously around the bowl. “Know how hard peaches are to get this time of year, dearie?” Belle knew, but Rumplestiltskin’s voice ran right over her, hardly daring to look her way. “Impossible. Impossible! Don’t grow this time of year. You need more than a little magic...” A long, grey nail touched one of the peach slices and Belle nodded as the few imperfections dotting the skin just smoothed away._

_Rumplestiltskin was too interested in the food. Eyeing it, caressing it, talking to it instead of to her. So when he speared that peach slice with his nail and held it up through a sunbeam—still talking of magic and impossibilities—Belle leaned as far as her body could, daring to reach out and pluck it from his hand._

_Rumplestiltskin froze._

_“It’s delicious,” Belle said. A giggle escaped as she popped the treat into her mouth. Juice ran down her chin and now,_ now _Rumplestiltskin was looking._

_“What else is there?”_

_So much. Too much. Belle quickly realized that peaches weren’t the only things with magical assistance this luncheon. It seemed that every time Rumplestiltskin moved one container on the tray another was found ‘hiding’ behind it. The bowl of peaches hid a rack of toast, the toast hid marmalade and jam, strawberries, bacon, slices of fish Belle couldn’t identify, hardboiled eggs that were too delicate for her weak hands—Rumplestiltskin deftly peeling them with his claws, joking if she really wanted to eat out of the hand of a monster._

_Belle chided him with a weak hit to the shoulder. Nonsense. She did and she had and she was. Besides, for all his mutterings and quick glances, it was clear that Rumplestiltskin was_ trying _. He wasn’t exactly subtle. In the time before her accident Belle had been both wary of and intensely curious about magic, yet Rumplestiltskin had shown her none. He’d claimed it wasn’t for the eyes of mere mortals... nothing to do with a fear that his new maid might be hurt, of course. Now that she had, Rumplestiltskin was casting magic left and right, on everything from her food to her bed—producing pillows that made the one he’d given her in the dungeon feel like straw. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was showing her the lighter side of things, as it were._

_As if on cue, Rumplestiltskin summoned a vase of flowers for their ever expanding tray. Roses. He sputtered excuses about how they’d be dying soon anyway without tending (“Isn’t that your job, dearie?”) but Belle tuned him out, looking down her collarbone where her own rose lay._

_“Thank you,” she said, interrupting him. “They’re beautiful, and the food is delicious.”_

_“Humph. No thanks to you, now is it?”_

_“Hardly my fault you’re paranoid and your magic is faulty.” Belle popped a piece of toast into her mouth, around a smile that she hoped demonstrated her joke. “Strawberries? They’re sweet.”_

_Rumplestiltskin took one. From the palm of her hand. He stared at it a moment—horrified and hungry—before tossing it back, stem and all. He’d hardly swallowed before he was looking away again._

_“Need to leave for a bit, dearie.”_

_Belle paused, another piece dropping crumbs down her front. “Leave?”_

_“Deal.” Rumplestiltskin said it like a vow—miraculous and just slightly sinister. His hands finally came up into their familiar patterns, waving before Belle with so much animation. She followed their movement like birds._

_“Another deal, another day, dearie. So many out there! Across the kingdoms wise men and fools alike call my name. Others don’t yet know I’m the one they’re summoning. But they’re all the same: desperate. Wanting. I have the ability to pick and choose you see, and admittedly your dear daddy distracted me for a time. You weren’t the only lovely gem I plucked from his castle.” Rumplestiltskin giggled. “Time to move on though. Necessity! There’s a pretty princess two kingdoms over who greatly desires fins. I do believe she’s fallen in love with a mermaid.” He tutted, solemnly shaking his head from side to side. “Nothing good can come from that.”_

_“Then why make the deal?”_

_“Why not! She has a pair of slippers I’ve coveted for quite some time now. Beautiful little things... and powerful to boot. Ha! Boot. Besides,” Rumplestiltskin fluttered his nails at Belle, pursing his lips. “It’s what she wants. Now, at least. Who am I to deny her that?”_

_“You’re the only one who could.”_

_He stilled a moment, head cocked like a cat’s. Thinking. Then Rumplestiltskin smiled. “Guess I don’t want to then.”_

_Belle smiled, but weakly. Gifts and conversation and breakfast in bed... they weren’t facades, but they weren’t the entire truth either._

_Rumplestiltskin’s gifts thus far had been apologies, yet his conversation was peppered was reminders like this. He was the Dark One. As capable of dooming one girl just as easily as he was cable of catering to another._

_And yet..._

_Hadn’t Belle made her own choice? Dooming herself, presumably, only to find that her captor wasn’t quite as monstrous as he claimed. Didn’t that princess have the same right to choose? The same chance to discover the unexpected?_

_Instead of arguing further, Belle released her muscles so that she was settled fully against the pillows. She stretched her legs and imagined that she felt the legs of another nearby. “How long will you be gone then?” she asked._

_“Why the interest, dearie? Planning to escape?”_

_“Never.”_

_Her single word halted Rumplestiltskin, completely. She thought she saw his throat moving before he turned away, fiddling uselessly with the food. He tapped the tea kettle—tap, tap, tap—incessantly for a while._

_“Ah, how the beautiful lie.”_

_Belle thought about calling him out. ‘Beautiful.’ She refrained._

_“I mean it.”_

_“Do you now?”_

_“I gave you my word before my father. Recent events don’t change that.”_

_“Hmm. Good!” Rumplestiltskin chirped. “After all, wouldn’t want to be you if you tried to escape. Oh no, wouldn’t want to be you at all,” and he giggled maniacally._

_There might have been a time, truly not too long ago, when that giggle would have scared Belle. Now she simply sat, her face kept carefully blank. ‘Like a book,’ he mother once said. ‘You can read people’ and Belle was reading the text of Rumplestiltskin loud and clear: he was lying. About what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. Her ability to leave? His desire to see her hurt? Undoubtedly the second. Quite possibly the first. Still, Belle wouldn’t test it. Not because she feared what the castle might still have in store for her. Not even because she’d given her word. It was far simpler than that._

_Belle didn’t want to leave._

_“How soon until you’re back?” she pressed._

_“... two kingdoms over. There and back.” Rumplestiltskin snapped his fingers in emphasis. “Quick, quick. Those princesses always know exactly what they want. Can’t fault the pretties for decisiveness.”_

_Belle nodded, and in the brief moment her eyes were closed a cup of tea appeared before her. Not floating, not assisted by magic, but held by two scaled, slightly trembling hands. Belle would have always accepted it. She accepted it with a genuine grin when she noticed that the edge was chipped._

_“Rumple. Surely you threw this out?”_

_“Humph. Dearie, if I threw out everything you broke even magic couldn’t keep me stocked. Drink.”_

_Belle drank, slowly, and Rumplestiltskin didn’t hurry away. They sat together a long while. Belle drank the entire cup, careful around the crack—but never ignoring it—her hand moving between the handle and her chest._

_Fingers warmed by tea threaded around a rose._


	10. Chapter 10

The wolf girl was late.

 

Mr. Gold could only imagine the confused humor of an outsider. Him, pacing back and forth before his door. His hands, creaking anxiously around his cane. All this ruckus over one lateness?

 

Yes. Because this was Storybrooke and as such Ruby was never late. Sullen, cutting, even hungover on occasion, but she always walked through his door at precisely the same time. Lateness was an event in and of itself, but coupled with Belle’s own deviation from her routine just the day before...

 

Belle.

 

Gold stilled, hanging his head. Things were changing. He could feel it coming like a strong wind, the possibilities singing through his blood at an impossible pace. Belle hadn’t just deviated, she’d _returned_ to him. She’s walked through his door, reclaimed her necklace, let his hands rest upon the nape of her neck, touch her, _kiss_ her... alive and oh so assured. Gold was still drunk on her resurrection, tempered only by the knowledge that it had come with her old engagement as well.

 

He scowled. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. Their lives here had a tendency to mirror their lives from the forest, a byproduct of Regina’s magic attempting to reconcile two existences. They kept similar professions, made roughly the same friendships, and now Belle was being ushered into the same relationship by her father: the princess and her handsome prince.

 

Gold let out a quick, dry laugh. Maybe Belle’s rejection wasn’t quite so unexpected though. After all, hadn’t she refused Gaston once before?

 

Ah. If only Gold could make a proposal of his own.

 

“Blast it all,” he muttered to the room, resuming his pacing. So easily distracted. Five minutes had come and gone. Then ten. Then fifteen. Where _was_ she? Belle’s friendship with the wolf girl must have been the trigger. Everyone else was right on schedule: Snow heading to school, Jiminy puttering past, the shouts down the street that told Mr. Gold that Grumpy was waking up in a foul mood, as he did every morning of every single day...

 

Gold was just about to throw himself against the doorway—and what a stupid move that would have been—when the bell above his door gave a quick jangle.

 

“Well, it’s about time!” He snarled, turning.

 

“... didn’t realize you were that hungry.”

 

It wasn’t Ruby. Far from it. Belle stood in his shop, dressed in jeans, heals, and a horribly wrinkled top. She smoothed a hand down her stomach, like she sensed his observation, and he noticed the bag she held in her other hand. The smell of Granny’s breakfast drifted out from the paper.

 

“My... my apologies,” Gold stuttered. He took a step forward... then two steps back. “I thought... well. I suppose it’s quite clear what I thought. I fear I’m quite a stickler for punctuality.”

 

“No. Really.” Belle drawled. She didn’t appear offended and Gold’s shoulders sagged. With the air of someone comfortable in her surroundings, Belle marched to the nearest glass case and began producing an obscene amount of food from a seemingly bottomless bag.

 

What was she doing? Why was she here? They’d agreed to meet again—a promise that had kept Gold awake the majority of the night—but he’d hardly dared to expect another visit so soon. Part of him was overjoyed. Yet a stronger, giggling part pointed out the dangers of the situation. Belle, deviating from her routine. Belle, torturing him by claiming to know him but not _knowing_ him at all. Belle, who was laying out breakfast like this was normal for them both, entirely oblivious to the magic that kept them bound; unaware that she was disrupting a balance meant to hold until the Savior appeared, _years_ from now...

 

Belle, who proudly wore his necklace in the dip of a low-cut v.

 

“I forgot my sweater,” she said suddenly and Gold swallowed hard in understanding.

 

“… of course. So that’s why you—”

 

“Told Ruby I’d deliver your breakfast and pick it up this morning. You know, instead of just telling her to grab it on the way out.” Belle turned and gave Gold a look. It made him swallow again. “Just for the record, I’m not in the habit of letting men gift me antique necklaces. Or of letting them touch me like you did last night,” (her cheeks went bright pink at her own word choice) “or of coming back the next morning to share breakfast.” Belle gestured to the feast laid out on the glass. “Unless you think you can eat all this by yourself?”

 

“Certainly not,” Gold murmured. Delicately, he pulled his stool over as Belle hopped right up on the counter. “Please, sit.” He said, a few seconds too late.

 

“Oh!”

 

Belle was oblivious. Bending in a remarkable display of flexibility, she swiped something white from beneath the counter. Her sweater. She laughed at the rumpled, dusty mess while Gold internally cursed. How had it gotten there? Dropped and kicked no doubt, some time at the end of last night. What rankled him was that it had been here, for hours, right under his nose. How could he have overlooked a piece of her?

 

Probably for the best. Had he found the sweater, Gold wasn’t entirely sure he’d have been able to give it back.

 

“Woooee,” Belle laughed. She shook the article out—luckily away from the food. “Guess I’d better take this to get cleaned, huh?”

 

Gold nodded his head. “My apologies.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. You could always help me drop it off—oh.” Belle’s eyes drifted to the door, letting out a nervous giggle. “Oops.”

 

Oops indeed.

 

“No matter. You’re remarkably chipper today, my dear.”

 

“I am.” Belle popped a strawberry in her mouth, smiling around it. “Had a lovely night with Ruby. Well, I say ‘night.’ ‘Early morning interrogation’ might be more apt, but” Belle waved a hand. “Everything is just... falling into place I guess. Remember the story I told you?” Her eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Turns out the is ending just as I thought: the girl is moving out. Forging her own path! And the guy isn’t causing nearly as much conflict as she expected. Hardly any at all.” She smiled even wider.

 

“Really?” Gold said faintly.

 

“Yep! Hey, aren’t you going to eat any of this? I also believe I was promised tea...”

 

“Of course,”

 

Gold stood, still bemused, but faithfully moving to fetch his kettle. Gaston, no longer an issue? Surely the boy didn’t have the respectability to just let Belle go? Short of the wolf girl tearing out his throat (or someone turning him into a flower...) Gold could hardly think of a resolution. Still, his Belle was here, she was smiling, and Gold was desperate to enjoy every moment of it.

 

He fetched English Breakfast, honey, sugar, the last of his milk, and a few chocolates he still had stashed away. He hurried back.

 

Gold chuckled at the grabby hands Belle made.

 

She cocked her head, popping another strawberry into her mouth. “You know, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

 

“Because we’ve known one another so long,” Gold retorted, only half serious. In truth, he wasn’t sure Belle had heard him laugh in the Forest either. Nothing beside his giggle.

 

“Fair enough. So what’s your name?”

 

Gold startled while plugging in the kettle. “Sorry?”

 

“Your name.” Belle nodded her head side to side. “First name. ‘Mr. Gold’ seems a little too formal now, don’t you think?”

 

For a moment Gold was frozen. His name? He didn’t have one, at least not in Storybrooke. It had seemed almost fitting when he’d realized. No last name in the Forest, no first name here. Why grant one to a man who couldn’t leave and who everyone else had no desire to visit?

 

“It’s Rumple.” The words were out before Gold could catch them.

 

“Rumple?” Belle repeated. Her tone was more than a little incredulous. Even though, underneath that, Gold thought he detected just the thinnest veil of recognition.

 

“I fear so,” he shrugged. “And the nickname is far better than the original: Rumplestiltskin. My parents were... eccentric.”

 

His father was eccentric. And a bastard to boot.

 

“Does this mean I can do away with Ms. French?” Gold asked, hurrying the conversation along. “Belle?” he tried, tasting the name once more.

 

“Belle,” she agreed.

 

“Belle.”

 

They ate in silence then, hardly daring to look at one another, even though Gold was still starved for her. The real food before him had no appeal. But still, Gold ate. When the water boiled he poured them both tea, steeping the bag and adding the perfect amount of honey—just as he remembered. For a moment his fingers traced the lip, searching for a crack. When it wasn’t found he handed the drink off.

 

Other portions of their meal were shockingly familiar though. Gold looked upon toast, bacon, slices of sweet peaches... he recalled another meal, so similar, and resolutely pushed it from his mind. That has been his last happy moment—or what he thought passed for happiness with him—before their kiss and everything that came tumbling after.

 

A meal shared there. A meal shared here. In many ways they’d come full circle.

 

If only Belle could remember.

 

She twirled the necklace round her finger and the movement jarred Gold back to the present.

 

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “This... protagonist. Where will she be moving to?”

 

Belle grinned over the edge of her cup. “Top floor of the library.”

 

Silence.

 

Understanding.

 

And everything tumbled again.

 

“That...” Gold stumbled over his words, taking in a breath. “That’s... not possible, dearie.”

 

“Hmm?” Belle was hardly listening, swirling more honey into her tea. “No, I checked the records. The library is public property.”

 

Gold closed his eyes. “Was.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“It _was_ public property, Belle.”

 

Her name sounded almost obscene on his lips. Gold watched, feeling sick, as her eyes finally rose—moving from confusion to shuttered distress as she took in his confident tone. How was he to have known though? It was a year past. Gold knew because he was probably the only one left in Storybrooke who was even aware of the passing of time. A year, when Regina had sauntered in—maintaining her own routine of periodically bugging him. She’d wanted information on adoption, of all things, and in return Gold had asked for a “family heirloom” (an orb he suspected of having the tiniest remnants of magic left inside) as well as ownership of the library. He hadn’t had a reason, other than wanting a connection to Belle and, more pressingly, something else to weasel out of Regina’s grasp. How was he to have known that soon after Belle would want to live there?

 

She couldn’t though. That was beginning to become clear to Gold, and it killed him.

 

How had he _missed_ it?

 

Belle had some thoughts of her own.

 

She laughed in a strained manner, high-pitched. The sound made him wince. “Was?” she asked. “Mr. Gold—Rumple—I’m telling you, my records—”

 

“Are nearly a year out of date,” Gold said quietly. “I’m not surprised. You are, after all, the only one in this town who’d be willing to update them. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the public property of Storybrooke is in the hands of the Mayor and it was the Mayor who made a deal with me some months ago. I now own your little library.”

 

“Deal,” Belle repeated. She blinked a few times and Gold wondered how much that word still resonated with her. “Right,” she laughed again, sharply. “Okay then. New deal. You let me stay upstairs and I’ll—”

 

“No.”

 

Belle’s lips pursed, then tightened. It was an expression Gold recognized. “You didn’t let me finish.”

 

“That’s because there’s nothing you have to offer me, dearie.” He stood, needing distance between them, distance from the lies.

 

“Look, I know I don’t have a lot, but surely we can work something out—”

 

“No.”

 

“Would you at least hear—”

 

“No.”

 

“Stop saying that!” Belle slammed her fist down, causing Styrofoam to rattle. “I get it, okay? I’m poor, dad squandered nearly everything away, but there must be something! I’ll take out a loan from someone. Or work here, in the shop, until the debt is repaid. _Anything_.” Belle hopped down, her hands extending in entreaty. “Rumple... I don’t think you understand. Gaston... we’re not going to marry... but I can’t stay with my dad anymore. Not after this. I need space, _freedom_. And even if I didn’t need my own place, there’s nowhere else I can turn. Ruby and Granny don’t have the room, I hardly know anyone else... you own every other building in town!” Her voice rose at the end, encompassing them both in the accusation.

 

It was true. He did own nearly all of Storybrooke, this town now more his than Regina’s. Which made her control over him all the more infuriating: this space, this power, his for the taking... if only he could walk out that door. It was why he collected antiques in the first place. Why he took from Regina those “family heirlooms” whenever he could. If any more magic had carried over from this world he had to find it. Find a way out before the Savior arrived, and before everyone else woke up, remembered who he was...

 

Which was exactly why Belle could never move.

 

He should have seen it before. Blinded… blinded by her return. His Belle was too stubborn to say anything other than what she meant. If she said she was leaving her father, she was, and that was a disruption Gold just couldn’t chance. Taking a day off from the library... meeting him in his shop... these were departures, yes, but ultimately small ones. But Belle abandoning her father would be a rather large wave in an otherwise settled pond.

 

Magic. Volatile and delicate. Maintaining a charade like the one Regina had created required balance above all things—the balance of an old life never overtaking the new. Her spell had managed this by copying reality as exactly as it could—same jobs, same relationships, same interests—in an attempt to make this world appear correct. Nothing could deviate too far from the original... and the fact remained that Belle had only truly lived her life in two places.

 

Her father’s castle and Rumplestiltskin’s.

 

And there wasn’t a spare room here to offer her.

 

A spare room? Ha. Gold barely had room enough for himself in this prison. He could only imagine the conversation. ‘Belle? Young and lovely and still a stranger—willing to share a bed a bed with me?’ Ha! Ultimately though, even if he was willing to risk the embarrassment, Gold couldn’t take the chance. Not until he was free. Not until Emma arrived.

 

So instead of comforting as he wished to, Gold turned and gave Belle his haughtiest stare. He lifted his cane and shooed at her like a pest.

 

“No, dearie.” He said coldly. “There’s not a thing from you that I want.”

 

Gold turned his back on Belle, as decisively as he had once before.

 

“Go,” he said.

 

He could feel her anger. Betrayal too, at what they’d started just a day before and what she could no doubt feel from their unremembered past. Gold stood still though as Belle angrily gathered her things, the first tears evident in her hitching breaths.

 

The bell above the door sang once before she paused.

 

“Ruby was right,” Belle said simply. “I misjudged you.”

 

He had to turn then, for one last look, and as he did Gold saw Belle ripping the rose from her neck. She clenched the gold viciously between her fingers.

 

“Belle,” he breathed, eyes widening. “ _Wait_ —”

 

“You can have this back,” she spat and threw the delicate piece to the ground.

 

The last thing Gold saw was his True Love’s face, disappearing in a flash of blinding light.


	11. Chapter 11

_There was a time, long past, when Belle regained her strength. Nourished on the magic Rumplestiltskin left behind during his travels, she was able to pull herself from the bed and continue the chores that she’d been bartered for. Belle dusted, swept, polished, and cleaned, all the while admiring the gold necklace that drifted forward each time she bent._

_She did not try to leave the grounds. She had no desire to._

_There are other stories cast within this time: of Rumplestiltskin’s return, Belle’s lessons in spinning, more meals late at night when the two of them shared far more than just food._

_Sadly though, tragedies are remembered the longest._

_The story with the greatest hold is one of surprising courage, of the Dark One’s choice to release that which he held most dear. Her return, a kiss, a love come tumbling down..._

_Belle French left that day, but before she did she tore a necklace from her collar, coolly claiming that she had need of it no longer. In that time and that place, a scaled hand caught the object before it could smash against the dungeon floor. A good thing too, considering the magic it contained._

 

In Storybrooke, years later, Mr. Gold wasn’t quite so lucky.

 

The rose broke, and truth came pouring forth.

 

***

 

Belle sat with her back to Rumple’s, breathing in time with him. They gasped, let it shudder out, then gasped again—over and over. He had the broken pieces of his cane in one hand, the edge of Belle’s sleeve clasped desperately in the other. Rumple looked around at the ruins of his shop, all the while counting the breaths of the woman behind him.

 

Belle looked around at the ruin too: smashed glass, splintered wood, concave antiques, even splattered particles of food from their breakfast. She looked down at the remains of the bag, blinking. She looked back up and truly gasped at the space to her left. There, in the middle of the shop, was her necklace, broken cleanly in two. It was surrounded by a halo of clean floor, the only bare spots in the shop. She weakly reached towards it and then pulled back, remnants of magic shooting up her fingers like static.

 

“Rumple,” she whispered.

 

Mr. Gold—Rumplestiltskin—closed his eyes. He could hear it, right there in her voice.

 

She knew.

 

“Belle,” he murmured back.

 

“Rumple,” she said again, laughing now. “I _remember_.”

 

She crawled forward and Rumplestiltskin immediately felt the loss of her warmth. Still, he turned to watch her progress, those wide eyes taking in everything with new light. Belle rose up to her knees, just far enough to touch a broken music box, then a scattered collection of silver. He knew she was filling in the blanks just as he had, remembering these objects’ place in their own world. Their place in the castle.

 

Her eyes eventually turned back to him.

 

“How I’ve missed you.”

 

Who said it? Him? Her? Perhaps both. They came together, Rumplestiltskin’s hand shakily diving into her hair, Belle’s fingers clasping the front of his suit. The kiss that followed tasted of dust and blood—drops mingling between them from where Rumplestiltskin had cut his lip. They moved together though, Belle finishing what she’d once tried to start.

 

She pulled away and touched the smooth skin of his cheek. Scale free.

 

“Okay.” She whispered. “Okay, okay. Maybe there are some perks to this world after all.”

 

Rumplestiltskin let out a snort.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Magic, dearie.” He nuzzled the space beneath her jaw. Sighed. “A touch of True Love perhaps.” It came out a plea. “Do you have any idea how much power I poured into that necklace? To keep you safe?” Rumplestiltskin gripped her tighter, unconsciously tracing the areas where she’d once dangled. “Yet I thought, like a fool, that if any artifact still carried magic in this realm...”

 

“I’d be with Regina,” Belle finished. The name came out as a growl. She tore away again, head swinging to take in the prison. “Wait. Is _she_ why you haven’t left?”

 

No answer was needed. Belle stood on wobbly legs, drawn to the only other source of power in the room—the doorway. She reached out cautiously, like she was approaching a wild beast. Just as her hand was ready to breach the entrance she felt it... magic. Like the kind still swirling around her necklace, only a thousand times stronger, dangerous and far more deadly. It blocked her way and Belle pulled back before it had the chance to hurt her.

 

She could go no further.

 

“All magic comes with a price,” Belle whispered.  

 

“Belle. I’m so sorry.”

 

Without a word she moved away, behind the counter.

 

“Belle?”

 

She slowly began picking debris up; putting it neatly in a pile.

 

“ _Belle_.”

 

“What?” She asked, a slight twinkle in her eye. “Didn’t I say everything was falling into place? I _remember_ , Rumple. That... that’s worth anything. But we need to talk. About a lot I think, and I’d rather do that in a clean space, wouldn’t you? Especially if I’m to live here.” Her face became comically serious. “Don’t know what I’m going to tell Ruby though.”

 

“Belle,” Rumplestiltskin said. He couldn’t say it enough. “You’re _sure_?”

 

“Even if I had a choice? Yes. I gave you my promise years ago.”

 

She came back around then, to him, clasping his hand and lifting him to his feet. Belle and Rumplestiltskin stood together, a shattered necklace laying at their feet.

 

“I will go with you.”

 

“Forever.”

 

_Fin._  


End file.
